Soul Eater: RIP
by sonicboy112
Summary: The demented moon lingers above. With its grim, protruding grin... seething with blood at its corners. Kindling the starless night... shedding luminescence upon the quiet evanescence. The Tales Leading to Madness and Back Now Unfold...
1. I: The Broken Piano

_ The demented moon lingers above_

_ With its grim, protruding grin... seething with blood at its corners_

_Kindling the starless night... shedding luminescence upon the quiet evanescence _

_ The Tales Leading to Madness and Back Now Unfold..._

**SOUL EATER: RIPOSA EN PACE**

Blood and cold sweat ran down the cold streets of Elm Street, painting the town a mixture of crimson and black residue. Lacerated flesh littered floor in the midst of a pool of blood and tears. Stained steel claws dripping with the remaining pieces of human that dared to cling on. He had tormented his target long enough, his gluttonous hunger had yet to be satisfied. This monster had not craved for raw flesh or the feeling of being bathed in another's blood in the chill of the midnight sun. No, it was far worse than that. One would expect the suffering and anguish to end once death has taken its grasp, however, these demons... these _kishin... _only crave one substance and one substance only- the soul. The very essence of existence in the afterlife. And then it came, with its blue light hazing the surrounding carnage, the soul had left the body.

The human was dead.

The _kishin_, like a child, reveling in its light as its focal point of interest and desire. There was now one thing to do with this freshly reaped soul. Eat it. Souls give power, turning the consumer into a weapon. The more souls, the more power acquired, the more corrupt the weapon's soul becomes; that is the _Kishin_. Inching towards the abyss of madness and impending insanity. Its mouth began to leak and salivate at its meal. It moved closer...closer... baring its unkept teeth... tongue reaching out-

_SCREEEEEEECH_

The distorted violin note shot through the demon, toppling it over into the bloody mess of its latest victim. Now in rising anger, the kishin spun around to lay its shadowed eyes on the one who dared to interrupt it's meal.

The shadows of the moon inched further and further toward the culprit of the kishin's present fury. Chilling zephyrs snake through the empty streets as the two assailants face each other.

" You, phantom murderer Freddy Cougar... Your days of nightmares are done... YOUR SOUL IS MINE! "

Upon hearing the voice, the kishin crookedly stood up and limped its way forward slightly. Unlike other kishin, this particular one was able to exhibit intelligence in some way or form. Especially through how it was able to invade the dreams of its victims to push them to the pinnacle of fear and panic, leaving their souls vulnerable and ripe for his taking.

The voice had come from the same source as the violin screech. Feminine. Still within the shadow, poised and ready for combat. Waiting, waiting, until the silence of the deadly night was broken by the quick pricks of strings and fast footsteps.

The phantom murderer too, lunged forward in mad anticipation for the soul that was near. Or was more than just one soul? Baring its rusted, blood stained claws, it prepared for the first strike.

The midpoint, the shadows lift. Silence takes reign for a split second as the two are revealed. The kishin, drunk on power and crumbled to the madness it offered . Coming into the light, a girl, wielding a...violin.

In order to combat the growing threat of the kishin to the equilibrium of the world and its inhabitants; Weapon Meisters, souls who can fight the kishin, come forth. Trained by the DWMA, living weapons and meisters are nurtured and raised in the ways of hunting down kishin and the prevention of the creation of more, with one of its most important core values- Courage. Through the ages, meisters and weapons have evolved into what they are now, with the different traits being able to see and perceive soul wavelengths and with weapons manifesting partial weapon form to enable combat without a meister. As of late, yet another stage of the evolution of meisters and weapons made its appearance- living souls who could turn into musical instruments, yet retain full battle capabilities. Namely, weapons that are not actually weapons, but are instruments meisters can use to against the kishin. Although said to be unusual to the young meisters, few have the compatible soul wavelength with an instrument for them to be used in battle.

The symphony has started, the night was young and the blood was fresh. The flurry of notes in cresendo actually began cutting away at the kishin's body. No matter, the kishin did not falter in its mad dash toward the young music meister.

They reach arms length. A decisive blow to find out who will gain the upper hand in the approaching violence. The luminous light of the moon seemed to float on the air, glowing as it did. The kishin met the meister's eyes, full of determination and defiance against a defeat tonight. Thus a gap of action presented itself, and the body of the violin slammed against the open jaw of the soul-eating demon, sending it reeling backwards.

This however, did nothing to quell the kishin's instinctive attack. The young meister got into position. Steadily continuing from the previous cresendo to a rapid stacato. The notes, the pitches, all manifest as compressed wavelengths of the meister's soul, striking the kishin as it eventually tripped over its own footing. The brief peace was something taken for granted. The demon's eyes began to glow eerily, expanding its wavelength of madness and fear. This was how it caused nightmares to sleeping human souls. However, the meister stood adamant against the madness, trying to figure out a way to finish the battle. It was out of the question to run up close because the already expanding wavelength would crush her own, small soul. Her face fixed on the glowing eyes of their opponent, she finally decided.

She decided to expand her own wavelength in a dominance between souls.

" SOUL RESONANCE! "

The resonance of the souls. A beautiful and fragile process. The meister generates soul waves and passes it onto the weapon. The weapon, in turn, then amplifies that energy, passing it back. This is done over and over until the resonance reaches its peak. The result- a powerful attack that can obliterate almost anything and everything in its range. The actual meaning of the resonance is the harmonizing of the souls; synchronization, to create the a bond so pure, that their partner is considered their soul mate.

The meister stood her ground. Back straight, arms extended in the grand finale. Now... concentration. Emptying the mind, clearing oneself of anxieties and feelings. Finding true enlightenment for a brief moment.

One long, rich, pure note is produced, filling the air with an atmosphere of bracing for the next move. Blue light emanates from below, the sounds of two souls whose wavelength fit into one another, enter complete resonance. In the space of a few seconds, the note starts to become horrid, distorted, unclear. Raising the resonance more...more...more... Stop. The violin is moved from her neck to a back-hand position. Flowing with energy, ready to be unleashed.

" UP THE GALLOWS YOU GO... YOUR JUDGEMENT... "

The violin then took form of a glowing, black, if possible, wicked sickle.

" EXECUTIONER'S AXE! "

A mad dash toward the kishin. Her soul wavelength expanding at an alarming rate. Closer, closer they become. Noise is produced. Static, noise dripping with the acids and poisons of the conflict between order and chaos.

_SNAP_

Goes the kishin, crushed under its own wavelength and the strength of the music meister's resonance. The axe had torn its expanding soul into shreds along with the rest of its body. Then the remains darken to a solid black and thin out to become swirling strips quickly compressing into one spot. A small flash and there it was. A soul unlike any human soul. A kishin egg. Any human who strays onto the path of evil, consuming fellow human souls has their punishment of becoming a kishin. Consumed by the madness, devoid of their humanity.

Tapping the ground, the meister stood upright to observe the prospects of her find. The resonance dying down, reverting the jet black sickle back into a violin. All the while, the transformation of inanimate object to human took place. With its form covered in light. Shape shifting into a human shape. The veil of darkness lifted, revealing to the expressions of the meister and instrument pair.

The meister, of African American descent, though her complexion had a lighter appearance. Wore a thin pair of glasses that always seem to shatter at the slightest tremor. Clad in a cross between an orchestra conductor's outfit and a catholic school uniform, clearly giving off a vibe of professionalism like most students from the DWMA possessed. Overall, her looks were plain, average so to speak. No redeeming features, bouncing breasts, or a protruding rear-end to boast. Despite that, she wasn't at all concerned about such trivial developments...yet.

The instrument, male, snow white, ruffled, spikey hair with extremely pale skin to match. Along with red wine eyes with almost a stoic look glazed upon them with multiple dark bags underneath. His smirk curled up in a sadistic manner. Observing him from a good distance would be enough to tell one that this person did not look entirely human...maybe.

The meister spoke up, this time with a more natural and casual tone, " So this is it... our fiftieth soul." As if finishing her sentence, the instrument, in the same manner rang in, " The halfway point..."

Now, each student in Death Weapon Meister Academy strive to hunt down kishin souls and maintain peace and order. However, the ultimate goal of every student would be to create a 'Death Scythe' a weapon for the Grim Reaper, Lord Death to use. To create a Death Scythe, it requires a weapon and meister pair to collect ninety-nine kishin souls and the soul of one witch in that consecutive order. These two students are among the few who were able to get as far as fifty in their soul count.

The music meister, now calm and well-meaning, looked over to her partner, who was dangling the corrupt soul between his index and thumb, grinning wildly as he always does. Eyeing the soul with almost nothing but hunger and the desire to satisfy his own appetite. Yes, her partner wasn't the most normal person one could meet, then again, back at the academy, there were many other eccentric and unconventional personalities that attended. However, he seemed to be an exception to that...

He was the weirdo among weirdoes.

His name was Bel. Aside from his unnatural appearance, Bel was normally reserved in any occasion, speaking when needed or spoken to. Doing as he pleased, slacking off whenever he wanted. Overall, Bel seemed to be a normal boy; that was until you would find the time to get to know the guy and find that he does have the most unusual quirks. Whenever he was near anything that involved food of some sort, he would find the irresistible urge to drool. In plain sight, he would often let the saliva freely come and go whenever it pleased. Of course, when necessary, he would suck it up with a obnoxious "slurp", which, to no avail, made its way out of his mouth once again. His partner wasn't particularly fond of that. There were also times where he would stay up through the night reading old books and documents upside down in the dark. Most of the materials he read were about phasmology, religion, and the afterlife. His meister would often come in early in the morning and see Bel hanging from something while reading his books. One other thing was that he kept his room pitch black at all times. No windows, no ventilation, no light what so ever. Besides the door, Bel's room had no other way of entry; even without the ventilation, his meister could swear it would be fifty degrees colder in there than the rest of their residence.

Shifting over to the girl. Bel's partner and one of the few Music Meisters in the academy- Adelaide. She eyed her instrument with utmost curiosity and observation. From his sadistic face to the rest of his messy outfit. Blinking twice, she asked, " Hey, I was wondering... Do souls taste good?" Realizing how unprofessional her question sounded, Adelaide stood her ground, brimming with the curiosity that drove her to further press on, " You seem to like them."

Adelaide promptly put her hands behind her back, keeping her expression of wanting to find an answer to her question. Adelaide had always been as curious as she was smart, which made up for a contradictory combination in a person. Unlike many of her fellow classmates, Adelaide wasn't raised in Death City or was exposed to much paranormal activity like most of them were. However, she was introduced to it at a young age. Adelaide was born into a family of musicians, all extremely successful in their careers. When she was born, many expectations were placed on her as well as many hopes and dreams of having another relative join their lineage of music, but the fates seemed to disagree. Adelaide was born deaf and therefore could not make any communication using sound with the only exception of crying out to get attention. Almost all hopes of her growing up in the vibrant world of music were utterly crushed. Despite her disability, the family still welcomed her arrival as a new member of the family with great warmth and love. It could not be heard by her, but it could be seen and felt; young Adelaide was home. Unfortunately, this happiness did not last long. When Adelaide was about four years old, during a grand reunion her family held, the incident that forever altered her course in life occurred. Obviously, the gathering of such a large amount of human souls did not quell any kishin's temptation to devour said souls. And so, a kishin attacked and slaughtered everyone that was present. Luckily, Adelaide was hidden by her parents to avoid any further harm to their precious daughter.

Everyone died, except for Adelaide.

The butchered bodies were unidentifiable as Adelaide came out of hiding and walked along the carnage. The kishin had then sniffed out one more human soul. A soul that seemed even more tastier than the others- a pure, innocent soul. It was at this time her six senses had awakened. Her ears began to function and she could hear nothing but the loud silence after the fresh kill. Her hearing had been restored along with her unique soul perception. The ability to hear soul wavelengths and perceive them. Her soul perception was the first; she could not see souls, but she could hear them. It was only a matter of time that the kishin found her, scared and ready to be eaten. Adelaide could hear the wavelength of the demon before her, mad and twisted with evil. Pure evil. So for the first time, she used her throat to speak and did her best to imitate what she was hearing. She screamed at the top of her lungs, shrieked and yelled. Little did she know that sound would be her soul's greatest weapon. Her soul wavelength dripping off the shrill note of her panic, tearing the kishin apart at its very seams. Adelaide had collected her first kishin egg. Word of the incident reached the DWMA and Adelaide was immediately taken in and raised in that same love and care her family had once provided her.

Now she was here, a student who diligently studied her lessons while keeping up with her soul collecting and combat skills with her laid-back partner. She barely had any memory of the family she once had, but she knew that their souls were with her. She could faintly hear them.

Awaiting her instrument's answer, Bel turned to her and lowered the kishin egg to lessen his desire to drool in sight of it. He fixed his eyes on her, " Yeah, they're delicious..." He paused for a moment to think of a way to describe how his experiences of eating a soul were without creeping her out. Scratching the back of his head simultaneously moving his stark white locks around, he breaks his look from her toward the moon, mimicking its expression.

" They don't have a particular flavor though. It's how it feels going down... the texture." he replied in a straight voice.

He gazed back down to his meister an gave a weaker grin than before with some hidden thought playing on his eyes.

" Do you know what it means to eat a soul, Adelaide?"

Bel brought the soul back up to his face, his smile growing wider and wider until it became a permanent feature of his face. Saliva leaking out and trailing down his jaw. His wine red eyes gazing at the almost tantalizing soul that was about to be his meal. There was a moment that Bel looked to be like a monster ready to enjoy the fruits of his hunt.

Adelaide stood for a while, taking in the question, what the question was actually asking and the manner of how it was asked. There were times where Bel seemed to scare her. His behavior was so hard to grasp, he even confused Lord Death with his strange habits and antics. But nevertheless, she trusted her life and soul to him and he would rarely, if ever, fall short for her. She started, " I'm not quite sure what it actually means, all I really do know are the effects of eating one." When it came to Adelaide, she would seldom _not _know something, especially if it were about music or phasmology. She would ask for the answer when she could not come up with one. So now, she did, " Bel, do you know?"

If possible, his maniacal grin only widened. His eyes lowering and focusing even more on the soul he hung from his hand.

" I'll tell you soon enough..."

CHOMP

...

GULP

**Prologue Part I: The Broken Piano**

_Fin_


	2. II: Bomb the City

_ The Artist_

_ The Revolutionary_

_ The Tagger_

_ The Sociopath _

_ The Urban Legend..._

**SOUL EATER: RIPOSA EN PACE**

The midnight air sweeps through the dark alley. Puddles of motor oil and beer reflect the faint lights of the street across the way. Dumpsters, trash cans, discarded pamphlets proclaiming the imminent destruction of the Earth, the rat nibbling at the filthy retail burger wrapper. These are some of the many attributes of the many alleys of New York City. Amidst the shadow, a lone figure stirs, emptying a rotund bag stuffed to the brim with spray paint cans, brushes, and custom stencils. All dropped on top of a wooden crate in no particular order or fashion. Rushed movements, the clattering of cans and buckets of paint. The morbid moon then peeks around the thin formations of smog to bring light into the narrow pass.

An empty wall. Blank. Aside from the fact that brown faded stains, most likely left behind from previous rainfall were on it. To the figure, his canvas. Another wall not to vandalize, but use as another tool to convey his message to the deteriorating city of cigarette smoke and car exhaust. Clicking from the shaking of the different cans. Soon spraying is heard, then slight taps of a paint brush upon the surface of his soon-to-be art piece.

Unconventional? Yes. Illegal? Sadly, yes it was.

In a matter of minutes, once again in rough, rushed movements, quickly stuffing all evidence of his presence in his bag and in any pocket available. Then, a complete stop. He had forgotten something. For this moment, his movements were as graceful as graceful could even be defined. Slow and sentimental, he pulled out a can of spray paint and quickly signed at a corner of his new master piece.

It read-

_Banksy_

Many things can be said about homeless youth. Which gives birth the the questions as to why they are homeless in the first place. Did they run away from an abusive family? Or maybe they were immediately orphaned and found that they had no other place to go? And why didn't the government take care of them during these troubled times? Did the domestic crisis system even work? Such questions were asked among the folks whom passed the boy with the glasses and stuffed backpack. Seeing the boy walk around New York City without parental supervision can cause controversy among those people who actually believed in the government, then again there where the people who didn't give a crap about some boy off the street, if he was with an adult or not, or if he was even in the right state of mind to roam around such dilapidated parts of the city. Though no one actually knows it, or even will believe in it if told, that boy is actually a very important figure in the underground world of modern-day intellectuals, revolutionaries, and skitzofrenic sociopaths. Short to say, an inspiration to all those who began to think that humanity had stopped using their ever-so-wonderful-organ; the brain. Meaning, unlike many of the artists working for grand, monopolizing, advertising companies, _this_ boy was able make not just a pretty picture, but basically an advanced well-written book chewed up and spit out as a work of art.

Taking up the alias or pseudonym of _Banksy_, the boy vandalized, or rather enlightened significant parts of the world with his art. From the UK to North America to the Middle East, Banksy continually spread his message throughout the world while keeping his identity secret, causing debate to spark among different parties as to who he actually was. Some believed he was she, some believed that Banksy was just a group of people all disguising themselves as one person, others are under the delusion that Banksy is a secret organization bent on taking over the world, while many think that all his works are just different products of different artists that try to take on the name of Banksy for mere popularity. However, _this _boy, right here, walking as a homeless youth, is the actual Banksy.

As one could imagine, not one soul would fall prey to what they think is a trick or a con. However, truth was, his name is Banksy, a thirteen to fourteen year old homeless kid responsible for all of those satirical, insightful, influential, and philosophical works of art...Period.

The reason as to why he was roaming around the older parts of New York was to look for a place to reside that will hopefully last him a year or so, and he wasn't about to go around paying total strangers large sums of money, claiming it to be "rent" for a literal office cubicle with a shared bathroom that 'supposedly' is meant for two people to live in. So here he was, trying to find some abandoned place to serve as his living quarters.

Though city life can call for a rather pragmatic and practical thinking to survive, hauntings in urban areas don't occur as often as one might think would. There are actually human souls residing in everyday places like restaurants, shops, and old apartment buildings simply because they just wish to stay and observe the living go about their daily lives and tamper with it if necessary. There would be mischievous ghosts and spirits causing some ruckus every now and then, but no serious damage would be done. To say the least, any and all kishin activity in the city was kept at a bare minimum.

In the older parts of New York, rumors flew around about different supernatural phenomena in various places like boiler rooms or theatres, that old, lamenting souls still resided in those parts. However, the boy knew none of that. Even if he did, he would still disregard it. To anyone that has been or is homeless, settling anywhere is better than sleeping out in a dumpster or an alley.

To the silent boy's luck, he stumbled upon what seemed to be an old mansion, rather unusual that something this big existed in these parts. Banksy stood outside the gothic gates with cobblestone walls accompanying it, surrounding the property. The mansion itself was in a rather run down and dilapidated state. Most windows and entrances were boarded up with plywood while a few were left open probably due to the work of animals searching for a place out of the rain of the city. The lawn in front of the mansion didn't seem to have the right to be called a lawn anymore. It now resembled fields of brown withered vines. The grass had become a ghastly brown and light green thanks to the work of the various infestations of lichen and fungi. It was... most definitely... if not, most surely abandoned.

Perfect.

Throwing his sack over the fortress- like walls, Banksy inhaled as he began to scale the cobblestone. At the arrival of the precipice of the stone, chilling winds and gusts of 'supernatural energy' hit the boy's body. He stopped and took a closer look at what seemed to be the source of the bursts. Past his looking glasses, through the moss- infested field, into the broken mansion itself. The air increased in a thin layer of precipitation. His body temperature decreased a few degrees celcius as the goosebumps crawled down his skin, carrying his strangely warm sweat down his neck and brow.

Perfect.

Ignoring his bodily warnings of impending danger upon himself and his very soul, Banksy swung over his pack and strolled inside the house-of-soon-to-be-horrors. Just another day for this boy.

The reason as to why he actually had the nerve to casually stroll into such places that radiate with that kind of dark energy toward the living goes back about twelve years down the calendar, in a country an ocean away from New York City; England to be exact. As a child, Banksy could see things that all the other kids could not, namely the souls and apparitions of those whom were beyond the River Styx as well as those who are alive. His Soul Perception, ability to see souls, had awakened when he was still a toddler. He would often point to the floating evanescent orbs that seemed to linger on people's chests, often giving others the misunderstanding that he wanted to play with their shirt or that someone else was behind them. Banksy would often wander off and talk to the dead, stagnant souls as if they were regular, live, adults. However, the deceased spared no _lively _answer to his spontaneous questions or sometimes none at all. As the years went by, the soul- seeing boy had quickly grasped the concept of being dead and how idiotic it would look if he interacted with them in a regular basis, realizing that he was the only one who could clearly see them. The sad truth was that most, if not all the dead human souls Banksy has seen either wanted him to leave them in their solitude or didn't acknowledge him at all. Out of respect, he didn't want to disturb their peace.

Coming back to the present, the same boy strolled to the front of the morbid mansion and stepped onto the rigidity porch. The ghastly breezes encircled him and penetrated his skin, wherever it was vulnerable. It was New York, people tended to dress warmly whenever they can. The boarded door that led to the rest of the house was swiftly kicked down. The inside had breathed in the air from outside, filling up the room that had began to have some light shed on it for who knows how long. By now, his hairs were now standing erect and poised, signaling that there was definitely something in that room.

Banksy walked in and surveyed the area. He wandered the halls of the eerie chateau taking in the different sounds and smells. The creaking of the floorboards, the occasional snap of a stray twig, the scamper of the balls of dust across the room, the curtains reaching to the outside world. The loud silence that hung over like a corpse hanging from a noose.

This silence... he honestly, extremely, whole- heartedly was contented with it. He let down his pack and tried to find anything that could be a passable chair for for the estranged boy.

He let out a sigh as he lowered himself. He opened his eyes to see that his breath was now visible. His expression stoic, he surveyed the room. It didn't look too old, however unkept and a bit damp. Rusted shutters of a window knocked to and fro, causing an eerily annoying clutter. Banksy walked over to the noise and released the hold as the windows flew out to let more cold air inside. He then noticed the stray mattress at the foot of the wall, almost like it was expecting him to come and stay for an allotted amount of time.

Night had fallen and the beaming moon had made its appearance in the night sky. The midnight air was thick with quiescence and the stillness of the world past the cobblestone gates. A lone light was lit among the windows of the crooked chateau, flickering once. Flickering twice. Dancing around the fuse before burning smoothly once again. Even into the late hours of the night, the urban legend did not cease his work for his new satirical piece that would someday be sprayed onto some wall for all eternity. A mark of his existence, interjecting that he was alive and active. The monotonous sawing of an X-acto knife through the crevices and the careful outlines of the cardboard to his desired shape. Slight shadows under his glassed eyes, he ceaselessly kept cutting into the board with sleep desperately gathering in his eyes, however determination and caffeine was somehow his main source of energy during these overnight projects. Quickness and efficiency, one of the main rules when going out to "bomb" something. Of course, the word "bomb" in this context is not the equivalent to blowing something or someone up for whatever the political, religious, attention- seeking, or drunk to the point of a straight trip to the toilet reasons one might have. "Bomb" in fact, is a term used by artists like Banksy to refer to painting over different surfaces or sometimes "to take back". Such terms were developed over time when urban art became more popular around the world.

Due to his immersion, he did not notice the subtle creaking of the door inching open. Within the darkness of the halls, the glow of the ugly moon vented into the shadows of the beams and destroyed windows. A lone soul roamed the grounds on this night. It haunted every nook and cranny of the dead structure. Here, the lines between the dead and the living blurred.

Whatever substance the soul originated from, it glowed like an opalescent azure candle and always had that wispy tail waving from the pinnacle of that ominous orb. Straining one's soul perception, one would find the deeper individuality and uniqueness of the soul. All souls looked the same, but in the most insane ways, did not. One such stray soul stalked the hallways, making its slow descent to the lit room on the left. The spirit had awoken from a decade long slumber to the wavelength of another human soul within the manor. What seemed to be some spark of even remote interest in another's life reflected off the ghost's wavelength.

Who is it?

Who is it?

Such overwhelming energy had amassed around the apparition. If just once, it could use a sign to let whoever it was know about its presence, it would mean all eternity in the world of living to it. It was becoming numb to the empty, meaningless sunrises and sunsets of the past years as it was bound to earthly bonds. Now... now... let this work just once...

CREAK...

The door had moved. A good few inches from where it once held ground. The chillingly cliche sound was enough to bring the artist to an abrupt halt. The sixth sense had triggered and immediately he saw. At the corner of his eye, for just a split second, but what seemed like an eternity. An image now burned into his mind, into the ends of his own subconscious.

He had seen the soul.

It was, to him, those whom haunted the place of their initial death. Where the heart stopped pumping and the bodily chains were then severed. It was normal to see souls hovering around, stagnant, and ever- observant. As if they were waiting for the reaper to ferry them to the after worlds, where they belong. However, it was unusual and even abnormal for such spirits to accumulate such energy to interact with their surroundings. Normally, 'vengeful' souls would have the willpower necessary to procure any interaction with the world of the living. Even if with just a glance at the soul, Banksy could definitely conclude that this earth-bound soul was, absolutely anything but a vengeful spirit. In fact, it seemed a little curious. For once in a long, long time, some expression formed on his face that could be barely related with a smile.

This was interesting...

But alas, the artist turned back to his tinkering, leaving behind his prior flash of excitement, and an impression on the spirit that became the first perception of himself to it. Unbeknowst to the boys intentions however, the phantom thought it rude to be blatantly ignored after such an ambiguous effort for communication beyond the grave and huffed off.

Sensing the soul drift away, Banksy found the tense, cold atmosphere dissipate. His nerves ceasing to react to fear and his body no longer producing those complex hormones that reacted to the stimuli of great excitement or fear. Physically, he was calming down. Spiritually, he felt better when the soul occupied the room. Mentally, that was something even he couldn't interpret. He perhaps was beginning to regret not responding to the spirit's attempt for communication, after all, it was the soul that approached him with innocent-intent. He just simply ignored it as if he didn't possess the soul perception at all.

Picking up and shaking a spray paint can, he looked at the newly carved stencil for his next piece he would put up. At times, he had to admit that there were other substantial events that needed to be prioritized before his own artwork. Though he did consider it his way of contributing to the global society, there were only so many things given to different people in which only they, at that time, can do. Here he was, a homeless, vagabond kid that can see ghosts, in an undoubtedly haunted mansion that he decided to stay the night in. Despite the "un-realism" of his situation, he did feel that any contact with anything, alive or dead, was better than none. It surely beat arguing with local authorities about his caught-in-the-act vandalism by a transcendental shot.

He stood up. Turning down the light and packing his scattered items, Banksy began to prepare to scout out said spirit, even if it meant losing a night's sleep over it. The room darkened as shadows crept out from the dark corners of the building. One important item he made sure to bring was one small piece of technology he actually possessed. An mp3 player, filled to the brim with underground artists and those he considered worth of listening to while he literally painted the city over. Headphones plugging in, he readied himself for the so-called 'hunt'.

Walking through the dusty, moon-shadowed hallways was creepy in of itself, that was until one finds that the person walking those hallways was a rather creepy boy with a suspicious exterior to match and who was, strangely enough, looking for a ghost that he saw in the corner of his eye. Yes, not very eerie at all to anyone. The boy expanded his soul perception to pick up any activity within the proximity of the building. Dealing with an ability like that for most your life tends to hone you in the ways of widening and concentrating the sixth sense in ways not always known. So far, the soul had not been found. As he walked, he pondered what he would do if he ever finds it. Will he engage in small conversation with it? Or rather, let it use his body for the night, which, now that he thought about it, was out of the question. Or repeat his past mistake and ignore it when he finds it. For reasons unknown, he had been undergoing the soul search for more than a few of tens of minutes. However the time, he did not falter in his questionable quest.

Time led to one thing and the boy stopped walking and stood as if planted in place. The music booming in his ears and his eyes dull in the inky darkness. There was definitely something, albeit a small presence, was recently located. He took in the stillness to further examine the response. It was coming closer and closer.

And closer...

Warm, rancid breathe trailed from its source from a mouth of sorts down the stiff boy's back. Tongue on the verge of dangling from its side, dripping with a mix of saliva and mucus. A low exhale was released in a form of an, "AAAaaahhh...," sound. The youth remained still, foolishly abandoning his five other sense to concentrate on his sixth. The situation quickly worsens as the bodily reactions to imminent danger eventually reached his aloof mind. Claws reaching back, extending it's long tendrils to stiffen and sharpen into knife- like fingers.

A kishin.

Snapping back to reality, Banksy leapt forward, only sparing half a second to look back at his assailant. Without a doubt, it was a demonic presence. However, kishin of this caliber are definitely found in the middle of cities or suburban places. It was an enormous wavelength dripping malice and murderous intent. What surprised him was the fact that he wasn't able to notice it from the first time he set foot on the mansion's grounds.

The demon let out a blood hurling cry as the boy sprinted down the hall. Among all emotions that gripped him, fear had the strongest hold, but what kept him on track was pure instinct to survive. Adrenaline pumping furiously in his veins, he dashed along the curved paths of the house seeing the darkness get deeper and deeper the faster he ran. More and more, the his vision began to falter due to the immense blackness that surrounded him. It was truly, the dead of night.

Feeling the kishin making a mad dash toward him as it made another futile attempt to swipe at his legs, Banksy immediately responded with swift dodges and leaps, not daring to make close quarters combat with it. But however agile the boy was, he felt the fatigue waning his body and performance. A completely dangerous situation and his body was failing him. Never before had he confronted forces like this.

Landing with a soft tap, the boy took a moment's reprieve to regain his stamina. However, he hadn't anticipated the impending blow on his right side, nearly crushing his ribs and mashing his internal organs into a finely ground paste. If the kishin had struck him on the left side, his heart would have been smashed. He went flying into a cold, wooden, planked wall and fell upon the frigid grasses below. The light of the moon blinded his raw eyes and reflected off his optic lenses. He fell with a sickening thud face down. Within seconds, he struggled to move his upper half, first moving his arms to lift himself up. Blood trickled down his forehead and shoulder. His right side left blue and battered wasn't his only concern. Before he could address it, he had retched about a pint of blood for what seemed like hours on end. He then found the strength to stand up, with deep gasps for oxygen for both his good and crushed lungs. It hurt. It hurt badly and he could only suffice a few grunts of effort to keep his balance. Even after the fall, his mp3 still spun about his music with perfect fidelity now screaming in his ears. He concentrated further and found that the demonic soul hadn't given up. It looked down on him from the gaping hole he made when he was flung out.

The eyes are the windows to the soul. He looked back at the kishin, into its eyes that were filled with nothing but pure gluttony for human souls. Banksy was sure that he definitely didn't not want this guy to devour his soul or anyone else's for that matter. The kishin dropped to the lower levels onto the lawn. The dead grasses crunching under its unstable feet as it painfully and slowly crept up to the boy. He had begun thinking of his options at this point. Given the circumstances, he wouldn't be able to run away efficiently or somehow ward it off. His chances of survival were gravely slim. Before he could gather his thoughts, the kishin had already struck him once again and sent him flying backwards.

He landed with his back to the moon. Its faint light raining down on him as it drooled its sanguine fluid. Everything hurt. He writhed to lift his head, looking at the pure form of malice desiring nothing more than his destruction. Fear's hold on him had tightened substantially, rendering his body stiff and immobile. He stared at what seemed to be the eyes of his death, slowly approaching, making sure to prolong his torture so that all that awaited him in the end was madness.

Within the inky darkness of the deadly night, the tables began to turn. The pale, blue glow of a soul was conjured forth. The boy had snapped out of his moment of weakness and with curious eyes, watched it. It floated, astute and unwavering. It had been the soul that intrigued him from the beginning of the night's venture. So there were two souls haunting this mansion. Banksy looked at it with the eyes of his soul, sensing its adamant intention of becoming the obstacle of between the demon and himself. The fear began to melt away form his body like frozen dew when dawn broke. He wasn't afraid anymore. And he was beginning to edge on something that was more powerful, hidden with in every soul.

The dead was protecting the living. To Banksy's confusion, he felt the willpower course through him as he deliberately reached out to the brave soul before him. Never before in his life had he encountered an apparition like this. All of them, every single one of them were... for lack of better words- dead. Apathetic. They had given up on life, seeing how it had already left them, and they also gave up on their afterlife as well. This shook Banksy to the core. His hand felt like it weighed a few tons as he strained to at least communicate with it. To let it know...

He got closer... Memories flashed around his view like an old worn out movie reel. However, these were not his memories. No, it was what seemed to be the soul's.

He saw everything and experienced its world when it was alive, all in flashes. His soul was reacting, he gradually felt more complete as his finger merely tapped the soul.

"I understand now."

Let us now transcend the physical world and enter the rooms of their souls. Within a dark space, floating like their were immersed in the ocean. The waves crashing above but letting not light filter through. Banksy regained proper consciousness and looked ahead of his black surroundings. At a distance from him, a glowing figure. Upon longer inspection, it was female. She didn't look natural at all. Her skin was a ghastly pale white. She wore a simple nightgown that glowed along with her whole self. Her hair was short, with bangs propped over half of her expression. Her eyes...transparent with their faint iridescence, innocent and pure. She... looked to be around fourteen... her figure was surprisingly curvaceous, like a ballerina...

She was hauntingly gorgeous...

Banksy found himself slowly drifting toward her. She held a demeanor conveying that she was awaiting a response. With all fear and doubt cast away, Banksy spoke.

" I finally understand the situation here."

" You and your family were the last occupants of the manor."

" And your family, including yourself were massacred by the demon here."

" Now your soul haunted the mansion along with _it _and eventually both of you went into some kind of hibernation_"_

" Apparently my presence here became the trigger for both you and the demon to be awakened from your slumber... and this happened..."

The girl gave him a sad smile, indicating that he, who had experienced her memories earlier, had firmly grasped the concept. He spoke again.

" But you were different..."

This caught the girl off guard. She did not understand his statement nor why he was so intent on making that point.

" Your soul... is that of a weapon,"

The girl's visible eye widened. Her once sad and calm aura now filled with confusion and curiosity.

" Of course, anyone whose powers awaken that late in life most definitely do not have complete control over them first time 'round,"

Banksy, still approaching, ever so constantly, remained adamant his statements.

" Your soul wasn't able to pass on like the rest of your relatives because of that demon. "

" So you remained here, a lost soul."

His further assessments of her history now mildly disturbed her. Just how much can he deduce from this situation?

"Now, both you and that demon are awakened. The only way for you to pass on is to cast it out."

He was now within the girls field of view. He held out his hand, in the form of an offering.

" I want to help you..."

Her soul was now twitching with uncertainty. She couldn't have someone who was alive risk himself for someone who was dead. In fact, he would be better off without meeting her. Though, at the time she first met him when she moved the door, her soul was starved of company and wanted nothing more than her presence to be known. He spoke once again.

" The soul of a dead human must be able to pass on normally,"

"But that doesn't always happen, does it?"

" We can cast it out together... "

Hope now glimmered its faint light from the bottom of her soul. To think, that the dead girl would be able to feel alive again because this boy's willingness to help. He had stopped advancing and floated in front of her with his hand still out.

" Put aside your fear and anxiety for now,"

" Whether you want me to help you or not,"

"Let your soul decide."

She looked from his out stretched hand to the boy himself. She sensed his soul wavelength. It was mildly dry, but strong and enormous. This now didn't turn into a matter of helping me help you, but into genuine concern for one another.

She picked up her hand and grasped his own. Tears streamed down her face, she squeaked a small response.

" Thank you..."

Light emanated from their bond, driving out the shadows of the space, showing it for what the rooms of their souls truly were.

A blank canvas.

Coming back to the dark night. The kishin had gazed at the sudden disappearance of the soul in front of its prey into it. A cerulean incandescence surrounded Banksy's body and his surroundings. The light radiated brighter and brighter into the depths of the night, causing shadows to dance at it whims and retreat to greater darkness.

An eardrum shattering boom resounded as his soul was swelling up. Getting even more enormous by the second. His body floated upward, slightly hovering over the ground. The dance between the two...

The Resonance of the Souls

Instantaneously, the visible soul dissipated and the boy land firmly on the grass. His injuries staining his complexion now only added to the atmosphere. The hunter was to become the hunted.

Within his body now resided two souls in stable resonance, permitting Banksy to simply be while the girl occupied the same space. Two souls in one body. The boy's soul had nothing but determination filling it to the brim. He was intent on some vengeance and to free the girl's soul from this world.

He held his mp3 player in his right hand. Noting that his shoulder joint was dislocated, he swiftly snapped back in place with a spine chilling crack. He extended his arm and willed the girl's soul to possess the device. Seeing how she had no body to transform from, Banksy lent his mp3 as her medium for it.

His headphones still in place, blasting music that temporarily was interfered by the possession. It had begun to glow a white blue and take the form of a backwards blade. The light broke off and revealed her weapon form. The wicked blade extended to arm's length and was held in a back-hand position. The hilt contained the screen of the mp3 player with the wire connected at the bottom, still playing music with perfect fidelity as it had always been throughout the night. The weapon was the same color of that of a bone.

Banksy eyed his target, exactly knowing what to do in mind.

" I'll be taking your soul."

The final blow was sent and the kishin's body darkened and exploded in a frenzy of black strips, leaving behind the kishin egg. The corrupt soul left behind.

The weapon reverted back to an mp3 player as the girls soul retreated back into Banksy's body.

He took in a deep breathe. His body no longer felt pain from before with the exception of occasional surges of pure pain on his right arm. He looked up at the now clear night sky. It didn't seem as menacing as it did when he was on the brink of death. It now looked beautiful with the small lights dotting the great black star and the moon now devoid of any drooling of blood. It was, in fact, a bit romantic.

He then took notice of the glowing, full-body apparition before him. The ghostly transparent white that was the dead weapon-girl standing before him. She came into focus and smiled.

" I cannot thank you enough,"

Now that the kishin was gone, she was now able to pass onto the afterworlds. She stood across from the urban legend as he stared at her dead beauty with nothing but relief and happiness for her.

Their souls had resonated, something that can be attained under certain conditions and if the souls are on the same wavelength, not only letting the participants wield extraordinary power, but experience a unique spiritual completeness for a moment. Letting them become soul mates for that time. It was only one tiring night full of horror and strength of character and their bond and level of trust had grown to considerably amazing heights.

But then there must always be a time to depart.

A purple light flashed, catching the pair's attention. On the ground was an emblem of what resembled a skull with three points for teeth. The all-traditional emblem for the Grim Reaper. In a sort of holographic medium, the pointy, black, masked, cloaked Messenger of Death appeared. Even without seeing his face, one could tell that his eyes were searching around in confusion and curiosity. The Reaper then caught sight of the two before him. Not really expecting it, the Death God was beaten at introductions by Banksy.

" You must be... Lord Death..." his voice laced with wonder and a hint of defiance only a well-trained ear could perceive.

The Reaper looked down, mildly bouncing in the process.

" Well, well, well! Hello there! There seems to be situation at hand. Tell me, you two seen a kishin lurking about around here?"

Banksy was not only taken aback by the fact that he could also he could also see the ghost beside him but also by his ridiculous voice. Was this guy for real?

Going back to the business, " It seems that we already took care of it..." the boy said while looking back at the floating kishin egg.

Immediately, the Reaper had lightened up even more, if that was even possible, and leaned a bit more forward.

" My, my... it seems that there's a lost soul here."

Banksy looked over to the girl's apparition. She looked a bit more downcast. He then knew what would immediately entail.

" You must be here to ferry her soul away..." the boy interjected. Now his soul began to display hesitation and sadness. One would be sad, even devastated if the one person that you held a deep connection with had to inevitably leave on such short notice. Despair began to creep up his being, the gap in his soul was going to be empty once more.

The Grim Reaper interrupted the solemn moment with an awkward, " Actually, no."

Eh?

" I was actually here to scout out this area for a mission to be issued to the students at my academy. I took the liberty of doing this one myself because this was to be assigned for students at a more advanced level. However, it seems that you two have already taken care of the situation here."

Banksy's heart sank like a rock to the bowels of his stomach. For a moment there, he was actually afraid of losing his newly made companion. And vice versa with the ghost girl. He sighed with relief.

" And to think, that the world- reknown Banksy would be the one to do it! I have to admit, your reputation proceeds you young man!"

At this point, Banksy felt a heavy dose of awkwardness to their conversation. Death himself was praising him for his work? That's gotta be something.

" And you, young lady. Would you mind telling me your name?"

The apparition was surprised at the mere casualty of the conversation between Death and man, but she hadn't expected the Reaper to call her out. She stood straighter and faced the boy next to her.

" U-uuh, my name is Amelia."

Banksy hadn't known her name up until now. Funny how it works...

" Seeing how things are progressing, I would like to make an offer to you." said the Reaper as he bounced up again.

" Would you two like to attend my academy as students? It seems that you both have great potential as a weapon and meister pair. What do you say?"

Still facing Banksy, Amelia drifted closer to him, " I'll go where ever Banksy goes... I'll leave this decision up to him."

The tagger's expression lightened, for once, things began to take a motion of their own. He had been living independently for as long as he can remember. There was something telling him to accept the offer and go with the flow from here on out. But he had only one question...

" Will there be a place for us to stay?"

**Prologue Part II: Bomb the City**

_Fin_


	3. III: Kristallnacht

_Broken Glass_

_Broken Soul_

_Broken God_

**SOUL EATER: RIPOSA EN PACE**

Kristallnacht.

The night of broken glass.

Shards and glittering dust lay plentiful on the ground like the impending bloodshed and death that was soon to come. Angry troops, furious civilians all carry their hammers of malice. Each striking many a blow on their scapegoats, the primary reason for their decline. Sledge hammers making brutal contact with windows, mirrors, and the holy relics of synagogues, remained cold and hardened like the hearts and souls of their wielders. Not a night's rest was even blinked during that god forsaken witching hour.

The crimson moon was glorious as its mockingly bloody grin sent its own teeth grinding as it chortled from it's pleasure from viewing one of the many human race's evil deeds against themselves. The other lights in the sky had blinked out when the humans, the monsters, went about their rage against what was considered the less than human creatures that plagued their world.

The night was noisy in Germany.

In areas, synagogues burned as their arsonists watched the decaying vista of their damage. Relishing in what they felt was their task granted upon themselves, their families, and the nation. Men, women, and children cried, wallowing in their anguish with the burdensome demon of powerlessness hanging over their heads. Puddles of tears mixed with the crystal dust created the distorted mirrors that froze over in the cold street.

A specific blaze.

A band of angry men.

One Jewish boy.

" ANSCHLAG! "

His footsteps crushed the glass that coated the ground were heavy and weighted with fatigue. His home-made wool coat whipped around him as he dashed to the atrocity, however, that didn't mean the entire district was in one now. The men had set fire to a local synagogue where many of the frightened and bereft people took refuge from the pogroms on the streets.

With no hesitation, he pushed and punched the closest man watching the inferno. The difference in size was too much. He spun around and delivered a blow of his own, making deathly contact with his gut, almost immediately endangering his ribcage. The child fell to his knees and toppled over on to the crystalline road.

His entire world, as fragile as it was- was destroyed. The sharp pain in his stomach could not compare to the agony of his losses. He began to count the ironies and in the events of the night. His illusion of his neighborhood and life was shattered and left to be crushed under the feet of its assailants like the glass that littered the streets now.

The recent struggle had caught the attention of the others. Many men of similar size and conviction all turned to his writhing figure on the street. Through his grunts and pain, he merely uttered, " Papa and everyone are inside... "

The men advanced further and stopped, for what seemed to be the leader of the bunch, who stepped forward. The juvenile traced the looming figure up to his face, darkened by the dancing shadows of the roaring fires behind him and his posse. It was like staring into the grotesque faces of human cruelty and evil meshed with the darkness and desperation of a cornered animal. The sight of it sent chills down his soul.

And it would be the last sight he'll see with both eyes...

The leader swiftly kicked his sore sides and the rest of the men followed in suit. Most in a blind fury of curses and violence while others were in a state of pure hilarity, bursting into a tantrum of stifled giggles and unsuppressed laughter and spitting. The adolescent did not cry for he could not even see or breathe, but he could feel and that was what made the experience even more haunting. For a moment, it all seemed to cease. Left with his body dent and crippled in as many ways possible. Numb in his pain, he was lifted by a fistful of his own hair. His face coming into proximity of the man's expression. He muttered something revolting into the boy's now stoic face, devoid of all feeling but pain that didn't bleed through. Receiving no response to his statement, he threw him to the ground in his burnt black ire. He stood over the Jew's crumpled and bruised vessel. The man's eyes hurriedly searching for a 'tool'. What was all over the ground that night?

Glass.

Each piece of glass reflected the twisted burgundy of the now former place of worship. Shards of all shapes and points, shined like a gallery of weapons to the mad man's arsenal. His body cold with sweat but his skin burning with vivacity and bloodlust, he a last picked up a shard. He drew it up and let it point to the demented black skies of the end of one's life as one knew it. The boy now oblivious to the impending doom to befall his being. The world spun 'round and 'round in the neverending chaos.

He thrust the glass fragment into the boy's left eye.

The world had fallen into madness that night.

The Second Great War had ended. The spread of Facism during that length of time had finally been quelled by the opposing forces at the cost of millions of lives and gut-renching warfare to last for the century. Soldiers returned home to their loved ones... or to nothing; bells rang throughout the European continent in pure ecstacy of the end to oppression, death, hiding, and violence. Refugees were unshackled and had their eyes burn in the smug, blazing daylight as they crawled out of their prisons. Many believed it too good to be true, fearing the illusions of their inner desires of freedom had once again conjured up the mirage of the silhouettes of their liberators from their neverending hell. Now and forever scarred by the horrific memories of the war, they set out in their diaspora, hoping to find new life outside the old, war-torn world.

The war had ended.

However, for some, the dreadful plight of their cells and chains still contain the their bodies and souls. The unfortunate ones. The dead ones. The forgotten. The mass liberation mission had indeed freed the detainees from the Death Camps and military bases, but the propaganda had stated and omitted the numerous uncounted containment facilities the ruling party of Germany during the war had truly possessed. Many camps were conceived for the sole purpose of experimentation with their " lab rats " acquired from flushing out the "vermin" from the basements of infidels to the party, the attics of the so-called hapless pioneers of tolerance and peace, and from the cities where they were rounded up and given their death sentence. Their lab rats were humans. Jews and any other type of man or women that was considered unnecessary and inferior to the Aryan idea of humanity.

Dissections done without anesthetic. Genetic splicing and transcribing. A complete degeneration of the captive humans to mere skin bags with precious flesh and blood to manufacture and scrutinize to better their military through scientific means. This, however sick as it is, did not stop with the body. These evils had even transcended to human souls as experimental subjects. Seeing how the anatomy of weapons and meisters are also influenced by the shape of the soul, occult scientists and witches were called upon to further their cause. In the end, only one thing was birthed from the torture.

Kishin.

It is in these camps, that many lost souls still reside and haunt the grounds eternally laden with fear and deceit. Any and all souls, especially these, must be ferried to the afterlife and somehow rest in peace. And there is a certain personification that rules over that process and the safety of the souls of the ones alive.

The Grim Reaper- Death himself.

And so, that is what a Grim Reaper does. Collect forsaken souls and take them to the afterworlds. Many of their missions are of that nature anyway.

A certain Grim Reaper, Lord Death's daughter, a reaper herself, was along her way to liberate said souls from their torment.

The Pied Piper, offspring of Lord Death. Words that can be said to describe a reaper like herself; silent, observant, critical, and void. Despite her adolescent exterior, Grim Reapers have life spans that extend beyond a normal human's. The Pied Piper's age traces back to the medieval times. Basically conveying that they also develop at an abated pace. Just imagining how old Lord Death would be would truly stretch the ends of a person's imagination to the limits of their sanity. Her attire mainly comprised of a black victorian style dress. Her eyes, wildly contrasting with her appearance, shined with a golden luster putting all the stars in the heavenly sky to shame. Her hair wrapped in a messy bun, with loose strands dancing here and there. A peculiar feature was the set of prominent streaks of white hanging around her silky sombre locks. It was in such a manner that this couldn't be expressed in mere words.

It was just so... asymmetrical.

Moving along, her mission was to search and safeguard any and all wandering souls left over from the death camps, with priority for the ones notorious for their secrecy in experimentation. She sauntered down the damp, snow-corroded railroad tracks. The nightly sky had been obscured by a thick curtain of smog and snow mixed with ash. A raunchy stench hung about the air, unmoving and condensing on the crooked trees around. It was extremely dark. The stagnant air and the acrid stench would have made it for anyone who was human to suffocate within its proximity. It truly seemed like it was permanently nightfall where ever she glanced. She could feel her deathly senses rattling her bones and shaking her soul. Her steps achingly echoed as her boots crunched the black snow beneath. She was truly alone here.

Despite her solitude, she remained stoic and phlegmatic, like she had always been. Her eyes, however, reflected the exact opposite because of their vivacity. Why had such life-filled been eyes given to a Messenger of Death? In fact, her very existence was an oxymoronic excuse for life to wiggle its way into the world. Death conceiving a child of flesh and blood? It's unheard of. The world around looked as if the nothingness would go on to the ends of forever. This was the world The Pied Piper was fond of. The world she desired. Empty and void of anything. No sorrow and happiness. No order and chaos. No sanity or madness. To her, this was the perfect world. After all, try living through a few centuries of soul reaping and strife and see how one would envision a perfect world.

At last, she came upon the end of the tracks, at the final destination, a human hell. The Pied Piper could remember visiting prisons such as these with souls trapped inside and it would be vehement, filled to the brim with the cries and laments of mournful and anger souls. And after she had reaped them, the area was filled with an even louder silence that dangled, inert and unmoving. Here, that very same silence hung, heavier than any before. Just the mere exposure to it would reduce an open soul to tears. The lines and rows of cabins for the prisoners stayed perfectly aligned. The ground remained frozen with a thick layer of permafrost. The linked fences topped off with barbed wire stood erect in the cold. It was like time had stopped moving here.

Time to get to work. The Pied Piper began to survey the area of any souls, roaming dead ones, haunted delusionals, any of the sort. Minutes after scanning, The Pied Piper stood planted on the spot, realizing what she had found. It was impossible. Unbelievable, inconceivable. The was no way... that she sensed a live human soul.

She immediately broke into a sprint, toward the direction of the live one. A survivor perhaps. But how, after all this time, he or she would have been killed off by now, or at least starved to death. Her pace slowed into a mild adagio as she neared what seemed to be another abandoned cabin. She could feel the wavelength now. It was extremely weak and dry. It seemed like it was at a dying pace toward its end. This wavelength, however, did disturb her slightly. Whatever kind of person that lay beyond the door was definitely not dead, but not remotely mobile in any sort of way. Leaving this soul alone meant leaving someone to die a painful death. She had at least that much common sense to assist, not that she thought it mattered in the end.

The Grim Reaper nudged the damp door, it crept forward, rusting on its hinges, threatening to break off. What light there was outside leaked into the inky shadowed room. There was nothing inside, empty besides the askew corpse-like body sprawled out on the floor. A lone rope dangled from the ceiling, frayed at its ends. The body was face down with the exception of the head facing toward the doorway where the reaper stood. The Pied Piper studied the figure, this was indeed the only live soul in the premise. It was a boy. With scattered, grayish- brown locks wearing a grimy, striped prison outfit given to the captured who were brought to the camps. Only one of his eyes was visible. Empty and unconscious. It didn't shine like the Grim Reaper's that stood before him. His eye had reflected death. Seeing through his clothes, she could see his pointy bone structure bulging from his pale, paper-thin skin. The sight before her, was, in all respects to the survivor, creepy. To her, it had somehow stirred up her once dormant emotions to conjure up the feeling of mild anxiety. Despite her shaken demeanor, she approached.

Reaching out to the live- corpse, her hand barely about to make contact with him, she felt the world outside the room disappear and meld into the stillness of the moment. Death God reaching out to man in the darkness. As fragile as the moment was, it was inevitably shattered at the sound of a cocked gun. Sensing the danger, The Pied Piper spun around and felt another tremendous soul making its way to through the camp. She looked out, seeing human dressed in what seemed to be a high-ranking military officer uniform covered with blood stains and melted snow. His walk was in a meander-like fashion. Sometimes tripping upon his own feet, other times spinning around only to fall over again and again. He dragged with him a wooden crate some odd size of a regular person. He held a gun in his free hand swinging it carelessly as he roamed the grounds. He was clearly not human anymore.

The Pied Piper watched as the wayward man suddenly stopped in front of her. His eyes worn but ripped wide open with what seemed to be adrenaline pumping through his veins. He gave a faint giggle and raised his right arm in salute.

" Heil! "

He said. His proud expression emanating dangerously toward her. He lowered his stiff arm and quickly changed moods. His mouth began to drool and his eyes became bloodshot. He was hungry.

She had seen that man's soul. It had become a kishin egg. However, it seemed to be reinforced with magic to make it pertain intelligent speech and fragmented recollection of life. Now realizing that she was in a completely dangerous situation. She found herself between a rock and a hard place. She was also weaponless; her true combat ability comes alive in summoning grim shadow skull familiars to aid her in fighting. She is also in the possession of a Deathly Wavelength making almost anything die with so much as a touch of it. Therefore, using any of her powers as a reaper would do her no good in this situation where she had to protect a barely alive human. He would die.

Through the door, the man turned kishin raised the gun toward her, teeming with evil intent. Piper acted swiftly, grabbing the boy from the room and leaping out before he pulled the trigger. As she jumped out, the cabin exploded in black and orange smoke. It seemed that the gun he carried fired compressed shots of his soul's wavelength; that seemed to be another effect of the magic on his soul.

...

Carrying the still boy, The Pied Piper leapt from place to place, dodging bullets that caused explosions of a high caliber. The man had run out of ammunition. He needlessly tossed his gun away and broke open the human-sized crate. Inside was a stash of fire arms of all sizes. Piper immediately knew that this was an omen. He picked up three in each hand fired like a pyromaniac. He laughed as he made her dance around trying to keep her composure. He spit and shouted,

" You filth! "

" You swine! "

All of this was in German. Apparently, he still thought the war was ravaging the continent. The shots lighted his stone face and maniacal expression as he shouted more curses toward the running god.

Then a stop. It seemed all the guns had run out of bullets, considering the rate he was firing them. He dropped them all on the spot and grabbed a rifle from the crate. He cocked back and pulled the trigger. No shot came out. It was in fact, jammed. He cursed once again and immediately set work to disassembling the gun to assess the problem.

Piper had luckily prevented any stray bullets from hitting the boy, who stayed stagnant in her arms. She couldn't keep this pace up for much longer. Running away wasn't an option too. The area was too wide and empty for her make a retreat. She didn't know what to do.

She then felt the boy melt in her hands. The sudden change of state caused her to whip down and see a gruesome sight. One that would haunt her for all eternity. He literally melted into weapon. It wasn't a normal transformation with light engulfing the person, but she could see his body literally form into a scythe. The blade seemed to be rusted glass and rest was a pole of rust with a keychain of the Star of David on the top. Piper nearly dropped the half dead weapon boy. Apparently, there was much to be explained, but that was for later. Piper felt the fear crept up her being for the first time in a few centuries. At any rate, she would have to thank him for triggering that feeling once again. It reminded her that she was alive.

She was now able to engage the opponent. The fear, like the boy, melted away and was replaced with the calm ferocity of battle. She took a stance, holding him backwards, ready for combat.

The man was fiddling with the rifle as The Pied Piper dashed toward him. He was caught off guard at her agility, her eyes meeting his, full of nothing the same intent he had given her. She caught him with the blade and swung him to the nearest cabin. Sending him crashing with a ear clotting crunch.

She then caught up and threw him up in the cold air. She intended to make her point clear to him.

" Do you think that you can banish your fears by hiding behind your oppression and regime! "

She swung down the scythe, making a gapping hole in his torso, sending the kishin back down.

" Do you think that you're Führer will save you from the chains you made for yourself! "

" You disgust me! "

" People like you should be dug up from their graves, shot and be buried! "

" Let me tell you the truth, soldier..."

" Your Führer is dead. The war is over. "

That last line struck a hard chord within the man. He immediately stopped his smile and replaced it with a bereft look.

He stood up. His soul had then broke.

Using this chance, The Pied Piper swung once again and decapitated the kishin man. Blood spurted onto the ground, coloring the snow a crimson red. His body darkened and burst into spiraling strips, revealing the kishin egg. All that was left of him.

The Pied Piper landed swiftly and gazed at the red, infected soul. This was the reason why her father created the DWMA. To prevent any of these kishin from regaining their hold on the world. To keep evil at bay. And to guide lost souls through their end. That is the duty of a Grim Reaper.

She stared at the weapon she held. It was cold and heavy in her hands. His soul wavelength was static in terms of how weak it was. Normally, she would have brought him to a orphanage or liberation camp. However, cases like this were to be tolerated by the academy, with its duty to raise meister and weapons to fight the kishin. The sight of him melting into his weapon form was burned into her mind, it still scared her. Even so, she felt rather drawn to the boy. Perhaps she could raise him to be her personal instrument- a Death Scythe. She was going to bring him with her to Death City.

Silence fell once again in the camp where time stood still.

Back within Death City, Nevada, United States. The Pied Piper stood at the balcony in Gallows Manor, the mansion where she resided. She gazed at the grinning moon like a child seeing it for the first time. Her mouth somewhat agape and composure leaning out on the railing. A warm breeze wafted through the cold desert night, blowing her tousled hair and streaks around.

She had just returned from Germany. From that empty world of snow and ash back home, to a world of red roofs, skull-shaped insignias, blue-black skies with a personified moon hanging overhead.

She heard the familiar bouncing sounds of the pointy, cloaked figure that she knew as her father.

Turning around, she found him standing at the open doors to the balcony, waving his large, sharply cut hands.

" Yo Piper! Good to see you! What's up? "

His extremely goofy accent went unheeded by the young reaper in front of him. Instead of a customary 'good evening' the reaper replied with a faint, disheartened,

" Hi Dad..."

It was rare for Lord Death to come home to the mansion in any case. The casual nickname 'Piper' that her father gave her usually called her by ensured her that he was really a Grim Reaper and a father to her.

He then took out a file from his black, massed cloak. He held it open in his box-like hand.

" Eliezer Abendroth. "

Piper's interest suddenly piqued. She looked to her father, who was reading the file on the boy she brought back to the academy.

" Born in Stuttgart, Germany. Should be around fourteen years old by now. "

" Captured by German soldiers in Munich along with others traveling with him. No further documentation was found on his family nor any others related to him. "

Piper looked down at the mention of no further documentation of anyone related to him. He was left to die in the camp. Now he was left alone in the world.

Miserable boy.

" What I'm wondering, Piper. Is why did you personally bring him back here at the academy in the first place? This is a first for you. "

Her father questioned her motives as she looked away from him.

" I ... am not sure myself... "

The normally calm, astute reaper showed her rather meek side to her father. Despite her coldness, even she harbored feelings.

" Well, either way, he is now in the care of the academy. He will be enrolled as a student as soon as he recovers. Which will be a while from now, given his condition, " Lord Death chimed in.

Piper once again looked to her father, who, by now had closed the file. She painfully thought of the possibility of another meister wielding him as his or her weapon. She felt... responsible for him and would like to further that feeling into a partnership of weapon and meister. She, at last found her stance on the matter at hand.

" Then I wish to be enrolled in the academy as well. "

Her father bounced once again, feigning a look of confusion.

" As his meister partner. I'd appreciate it if you signed me for classes, " she then smiled.

Smiled.

SMILED.

The cold, unforgiving demeanor of the Pied Piper was instantly obliterated the moment her smile lit upon her face. It was as if every heavenly body in the universe came to a grinding halt. Even the moon stopped grinning for minute.

Regaining his composure, Lord Death bounced eagerly, " Very well then. You will begin classes when he starts,"

" But Piper, don't forget, you're a Grim Reaper. You don't need to be collecting souls or training weapons. " The Reaper said in a warning tone.

" Even so, I want to make my own weapons to my own specifications, " Piper replied with an astute tone.

" I see... " Was all the Grim Reaper could say before handing the file to Piper. He turned around and waved,

" Well, I'm sure you can handle it yourself, Piper. Good Luck!"

Piper stood, amazed at the decision she had made. Things were definitely going to change from now moon then resumed it eternal grinning and laughing with renew ferocity of its own. Blood began to drip from it's teeth and spill off the end of its ferocious mouth.

Yes, things were, indeed, changing.

**Final Prologue Part III: Kristallnacht**

_There is the music meister Adelaide and her instrument Bel_

_The urban vigilante Banksy and the ghost Amelia_

_And The Pied Piper, a Grim Reaper with her partner Eliezer_

_With this_**, **_the Prologue is complete_

_Now the real story will begin..._


	4. IV: The Insane Comedy

_The Insane Comedy..._

**SOUL EATER: RIPOSA EN PACE**

Death Weapon Meister Academy, Death City, Nevada, United States of America.

A 'not your typical school' in a 'not your typical city' in the middle of the desert. Alas, however the unorthodox location, the abbreviated DWMA's headquarters, the academy itself, lies within a city with pointy red rooftops, crooked buildings, and the image of the grim reaper on almost every street corner.

Here, you'll find the quarters of many students and professionals of all kinds alike in their everyday routines and habitual commutes. It was as if hunting demons and collecting souls was a blue collar job. Despite its strange background, the townsfolk are normally cordial and welcoming to anyone and anything. Like any city, the streets and sidewalks are almost bursting with bustling people on a habitual rush to and fro. Roads for cars are nonexistent here, the only forms of public transportation are the occasional Death Cabs that connect Death City to the surrounding forms of civilization due to its remote location.

Moving on to the academy, students attend class like any other school, with subjects boasting the best in phasmology and other studies of the supernatural. The curriculum included various periods of attending lectures and classes grouped together with extra curricular activities such as soul collecting, which the academy so conveniently provides in the form of a mission board for students to choose from. The student body is rather diverse, with children from all over the world, from many different backgrounds and origins. Among those in the student body is Adelaide, who is now looking at the previously mentioned mission board for any one task in particular to take on with her instrument partner, Bel, who strangely wasn't with her at the moment. Her eyes tracing up and down the wooden clamps, reading the obvious signs of a taken mission and an available one.

A pair a voices sang in unison, " Ohayo gozaimasu, Ada-chan!"

The said meister turns and looks over to the source of the greeting, half expecting to know who it was who greeted her. Seeing down the corridor, another meister and weapon pair was giddily skipping toward her, the Saginomiya twins.

Here is a prime example of the diversity of the DWMA. The Saginomiya twins, Hatsu and Shizuko hail from Japan. Both daughters of a Shinto priestess, thus explaining their layered kimono-attire in the triple digit weather, came to the academy to hone their skills in casting out spirits for exorcisms and to perform basic services and duties a priestess is to have. Hatsu, the firstborn of the two, is a weapon, specifically a katana and was regarded by the community to be the future candidate for the role of the maiden of the shrine. Shizuko, however, being the last born and unexpectedly Hatsu's twin, was demanded to be put to death, for it was a supposed shame to have two maidens for the shrine. Their mother however, firmly disagreed. Long story short, after a short, ridiculous stint which ended up with the mother revealing her vindictive side to 'persuade' the community to merely accept the fact that a shrine with twin priestesses would be more cute, regardless of tradition, but after some more implications, Shizuko was turned into a zombie and thus, became Hatsu's undying meister. Despite a conflicted past, all is well with the twins now studying abroad at the academy.

Shizuko, looking through the spell tag that labeled 'zombie' on her forehead, asked. " Ara? Where's Bel-kun today?"

Adelaide waved with loose wrists toward her foreign friends, " Good morning guys. It looks like Bel got to school before me today." she merely explained with a painfully formed smile on her face, masking the germinating enmity she was feeling toward her partner at the moment.

" Ehhhh~ Don't you and Bel-kun live together though? " questioned Hatsu in a painstakingly cute and innocent manner.

Adelaide momentarily looked away and let that same hatred materialize on her expression as a vein was completely visible from the the twins' view, " That jerk, why doesn't he wait up for me like a normal person? " she muttered in an eerie, dark tone.

Noticing her temporary detachment from her conversation, Adelaide turned back to Hatsu and Shizuko with an all smiles expression once again, " So that's the case..."

The synchronized pair of twins both smiled their custom-formed, formal smiles toward their classmate, signifying they were exteriorly oblivious about Adelaide's "hidden" flash of anger.

" Actually, that wayward partner of yours is nowhere to be found, " A deep, stoic voice waved in. Adelaide turned once again to the source of the voice, only to be horribly upset at who was actually there. " Nor was he seen on school grounds this morning either. "

Coming as an unpleasant surprise, Adelaide was confronted with her classroom teacher, Professor Sweeny Todd. He was a pale, gaunt man. His eyes were seemingly smeared with a permanent red which contrasted with the black bags that were carved into his bony figure. His hair was a royal mess, only to be sleeked back with some sort of gel or oil. Despite that, a static white stroke was present near his bare forehead. He hovered a good six feet and kept an ominous air upon him. He reeked of shaving cream and pie crust, and he had the habit of not looking at anyone in the eye for most of his conversations, however, when he did, one would immediately wish for him to go back to staring off into space. His eyes were black, unlike any other black color a student would see around the academy. The blackness of his pupils would rival that of Lord Death's sharp cloak. He is also known among his students and coworkers alike as the " Demon Barber ". He seemed rather apathetic about it.

Adelaide shook off her surprise, " Is that so..."

The twins opposite of her, gave the opposite reaction toward their sensei, " Ohayo, Todd-sensei, " as they bowed in respect.

His glazed eyes flowed to the pair and gave a slight nod of acknowledgment before shifting once again to Adelaide, " You ought to keep a leash on him if he's always disappearing like that. It's not good for your partnership. " He concluded with his lazed British accent.

Adelaide knew in her heart that no matter how much she invested in trying to get to know her partner, Bel's ever-so-present-tendency to be obscure in his motives always defeated her own will in the end. It was like there was no way of getting through to the guy. Professor Todd had always kept extra supervision on the pair because they were the only music-instrument partners in their class. This was for further research on the nature of a weapon-instrument's development. As of yet, there were no Death Scythes that were Instruments for that matter. As a bonus, Professor Todd had also taken a keen interest in Bel. He was a character of his own, if he even had one. This probably intrigued him to see what else the boy would reveal.

The music meister stomped her foot, " I wonder if that idiot even cares if it affects our development as partners. " She crossed her arms in a huff, obviously getting even more upset the more they talked about Bel.

Observing her tantrum, Mister Todd raggedly scratched his scalp, " Well, moving on... I'll have you know that today, we'll be receiving two new students in our class. "

Adelaide's interest piqued, " New students? Do you know who they are? " She uncrossed her arms, now interested in the topic at hand.

The ragged professor replied, " One is-

BOOM.

An explosion.

_... Ten Minutes Earlier ..._

Rumors often spread by word of mouth around the academy despite its enormity. Different rumors arose, often questioning the foundation of the academy itself. However, that's all they remained- just rumors. Coming to current times, one particular rumor circulated around the student body with great ease and impact. It was always a big deal whenever new students arrived at the academy, even more so if they were from abroad. The DWMA did have its fair share of international students coming in at a steady rate every year.

The initial rumor that was germinating in the academy was that a first-time meister who defeated a high caliber kishin was newly enrolled in the DWMA... at least that was the bulk of the story. As it propagated, various exaggerations were added, of which were that he/she defeated said kishin using their bare hands, no weapon what-so-ever; that the sheer enormity of their soul's wavelength crushed the kishin into multiple kishin eggs; and that the meister was a witch undercover. This vastly popular rumor had eventually reached the ears of one creepy and estranged instrument. Upon hearing it, he knew exactly how to give a warm welcome to a meister of such a reputation.

Bel sat slumped in front of the triangular gap of a skull that was known as the entrance to the academy. His ruffled achromatic hair stuck off into several different directions. His expression rather blank, as if he were sleeping. However, under his facade lay his gushing excitement and gleeful anxiety, if such a feeling can be expressed. The morning rush was dissipating into the buildings and halls of the school, weapons and meisters walking along their way to their respective classrooms for another day of instruction chatted nonchalantly about lessons or everyday subjects. Among those crowds of students, literally stood out yet another one-of-a-kind docent. He was standing on the tip of a bo staff. He was a Buddhist monk passing out fliers, inviting students for the opportunity to drastically improve their soul resonance exponentially. His bald head gave off a blinding luster that matched the volume of his voice and broken english. He went by the name of Yuan. Another prime example of the vast diversity of the DWMA.

The flurries of noise all around Bel bounced off his 'killing' aura and sub-atmosphere. Even among a crowd of people, the space around him was always present; like an invisible circle had been drawn to keep normal people out. It was customary for many of students to avoid the aloof boy. Not that he cared though, he had other things he was interested in while the gap around him got larger and wider.

His drool-stitched simper ripped open even more as his sleep-ridden, dahlia eyes remained fixed on the edge of the steps.

" When the crap is that damn kid coming here anyway? "

...

The stenches and the aromas of Death City wafted through its streets as the guffawing sun started its trek across the sky. The bright and early morning life scuttled about with its same approach to the daily struggles of eagerly selling their wares to one another only to be circulated within months to the original seller in some different shape or form. The bespectacled vandal-boy sauntered down the cobblestone alleyways and streets. His mp3 player on a low volume to take in the previously unknown city, which would now be his new home. His appearance did catch some roaming eyes as he passed. His traditional black jacket/hoodie would be immediately marked down as what not to wear in the heated weather of the desert. Regardless of the stares, the youth known as Banksy continued along his way with a sluggish drop of sweat snaking down his spine.

He looked up to the grand learning institution that loomed above the entire 'city' . He concluded that most, if not all the building around him could fit inside the school. He then began to wonder what regular student life was actually like, after all, he was given a brochure depicting alumni, teachers, and some 'star' meisters and weapons. But being the person he is, safely included that the brochure did nothing to convey what campus life was like in the DWMA. After all, it's an academy that trains kids to fight against demonic forces. Maybe this is what led to the desensitization to violence for the last few decades. However, it does not change the fact that children are willing to risk their lives and the sanity of their souls to protect the innocent and keep order in the world. That, in itself was good.

After all, " there's nothing more dangerous than someone who wants to make the world a better place. " *

Spotting the scattered groups of children and kids running around the narrow streets, Banksy couldn't help but wonder how life was truly like on this side of society. Living in the day, fighting by night, and somehow find the time to sit down and have a normal life amidst the combat. Such was the resilience of humans. After a few minutes of observing, the boy caught sight of the overly stated excuse for a flight of steps leading to the academy and went forward.

Step by step, Death City receded lower and lower as the boy ascended the stairs. A familiar voice rang in his ears, despite the headphones, her voice overshadowed the booming music, " I never thought I'd be able to visit places like this. At least, in my life time. "

Banksy continued his strenuous trek up the stairs as he maintained a static expression whilst engaging in conversation with his resident soul and partner,

" Death City is a ... unique place.., " he half replied as his eyes took in the gapping vista the tumultuous stairs offered, " Even I haven't tried coming here before today. "

The apparition of the phantom girl extended and materialized beside her partner, slightly floating and slightly leaning forward. Her spirit was semi-transparent in the raining sunlight, " It gives off a completely different beauty, doesn't it Banksy? " the ghost-girl asked as she too looked out to the city with pointy red rooftops and cobblestone streets.

Banksy turned to look at his ghostly weapon. With slightly observing eyes, he looked through and at her simultaneously. She then noticed the studying stare and dared to question, " Oh, something wrong? "

Her face as lit and radiant as the smug sun overhead, she kept her expression pleasant as he looked at her with increasing intensity. He turned his body toward the school, but kept his boulder-breaking stare directed at her. She felt unease as she wouldn't know what he could possibly want to say or ask by now. Finally, he spoke.

" Amelia..."

His voice with the same tone and minimum expression sounded her name as it rolled off his tongue and dropped off his lips with a seemingly hidden meaning.

" Y-yes? " The girl took note of the growing awkwardness.

...

" We're going to be late, " he curtly said as he strolled upwards once again.

Coming into better view, the academy for meisters and weapons rose as Banksy walked up. The enormous candles at both sides, each with a blazing flame eating away at the match of the melting wax. The three omnipresent spheres that hovered over the academy's two tallest towers, forming the shape of the reaper's mask also came into view. The vast courtyard at last came up as the boy stepped over the final stair, scant groups of students all walking towards the high, shaped entrances of the school. First thing he did before being overwhelmed with culture shock was a small survey with his soul perception, checking the soul around him, seeing and feeling if there was anything different among the students. Shortly after his survey, Amelia spoke up once again, " It feels so nice to be in school once again! "

Banksy now lessened his concentration and began to observe the academy visually, " Do you? This place already feels like a prison though. "

He could feel Amelia's soul act up, " How could you say that? School is where you learn so many new things everyday! It's- "

Banksy immediately hushed her for a moment. He suddenly felt an abnormal wavelength. Or at least, some kind of cold, killing intent directed at him. He further looked around and found that most all of the students had gone inside. From what he could see and sense was that he was left alone with two other people. One off to the side, sitting on a staff of some sort. And another, sitting slumped at the entrance, giving him a hard, cold stare while grinning like the moon on a bad night. For a moment, cold wind had breezed by the tension between the two souls.

What troubled him most was the one sitting at the entrance. The further he looked into the creep's soul, the more he wanted to get out of there. The other soul now off to the sidelines, Banksy calmly stepped forward. Amelia aberrated beside him, with similar worries.

The boy known as Bel eyed them precariously, his drool now beyond the point of slurping up, " 'Morning... You the the new kid everyone's been talking about? "

In return, Banksy eyed the opposing boy with a similar glare, maintaining his cool,

" Today's my first day. Are you here to show me around? "

Bel chuckled as if his previous statement mentioned the obviously wrong question he was supposed to ask. His sharp teeth now bared at their finest. His ego now overflowed through his being and attitude. This was usually called, 'insubordination'.

" You show up without a clue of where you're supposed to be and now you're asking me for a tour? " Bel felt the increasing friction of their glares and immediately sought to wipe that serious look off the boy's face. " So, what's your name? "

" Banksy. "

The mouth ripping smile on Bel's face disappeared a moment in disbelief and slight recognition at the name. His features now returning to normal, leaving horrid wrinkle lines in their wake. Seconds after, the grin was back, wider than ever before.

" You don't mean to tell me... that a guy like you is that same artist that's been all over the world! " His voice rising in a mixture of disbelief and mocking sarcasm.

Banksy's expression remained stone-cold as he stared straight into the face of the certified ass who dared to mock and question his identity. He had never told anyone his pseudonym before, however, it was for this and many other reasons that he kept to himself. If anything, he felt a growing determination to yank out every sharp canine in the pale, white-haired boy across from him.

Amelia looked to Banksy only to find that his soul was slowly swelling up in a fit of anger. Before she could say anything, Banksy immediately gave the message for her to switch to weapon form. A quarrel like this was pretty small in comparison to what one would face in streets, out in 'civil society', that disputes were settled with either insurance claims, private negotiations, or violence. Apparently, this situation was an exception for the street-raised boy to raise some hell upon the pitiful individual who struck a bad chord in him. Amelia sighed and mumble a statement that was among the lines of " boys will be boys " and " here we go again " as she extended herself to his mp3 and transformed.

Within seconds, Banksy had rushed up to the taunting Bel and made an attempt to strike him. In that same timeframe, Bel had quickly risen to his feet and jumped back awkwardly, with his legs bent and and spread, seeing the where the strike had landed.

BLAM

A hole was made in the concrete and brick, roughly the size of a human head. Hovering above that was Banksy's fist, crackling with what seemed to be electricity; his fist unscathed was proof that he did not make contact with the ground, but shot something into it. Bel lit with a spark of excitement and adrenaline.

" You can shoot your soul's wavelength too? "

Banksy made no attempt to continue his sudden raid and instead, stood back up to once again face Bel. Amelia had, by then, fully transformed into the backwards bladed weapon she was with the aid of the mp3's physical structure. Bel landed a few feet from the freshly made hole. With newfound anticipation, he readied himself to see how long this 'Banksy' would last against him. He partially transformed and let the violin strings, now slack and limp, dangle from his fingers.

" I'm gonna enjoy this... "

Like a loosely unified militia made up of animals and farmers against the modern day infantry of the US Army, it was an uphill battle.

And Bel was losing.

Curious onlookers watched from their classrooms up through the windows down at the struggle. Fights on campus would usually take place in the front of the academy for its wide space. The certain rule that justified said fights was the regulation that in order for it to commence, a teacher must be there to evaluate. Yes, the DWMA was not your typical school.

Walking through the once commotion-filled hallways , Adelaide carried along with Professor Todd to the front entrance of the school. The musician felt a solution of feelings arise from the current situation. Embarrased because an A-grade student like her had a partner of a dissimilar nature; angry because, as partners, one must consult the other to fight efficiently as a single unit, not get into fights on their own without their meister; and confusion as to why her not-so-typical instrument would even get involved in said affairs. From what she observed, other students avoided him at all costs and went to great lengths to do so, and today, the same boy willingly ran head first into a fight he probably wouldn't win. Following Mr. Todd, Adelaide visibly sighed. Without looking, Professor Todd began a conversation.

" Do you want to fight with him when we get there? " the elder asked.

Adelaide looked up, " I don't want to get into unnecessary fights. "

" Yet your partner seems to disagree with that. " he replied.

She grumbled, " Yeah... well, this still seems kinda strange. "

" What do mean by 'strange'? " asked the barber.

A short pause, " Bel is an enigma, " another pause, " He never talks to anyone and obviously, everyone else does not want to talk to him. But here he goes rushing off to meet someone else. I always thought he wasn't good with other people. "

In a short second, the englishman looked down at her, studying her expression. He finally answered, " Bel is full of surprises. You can't predict anything from the boy except the unexpected. " He looked straight once again, " But it seems like today we may get a closer look at him with more clarity."

Adelaide's mood lightened, " What do you mean professor? "

The light of the entrance was near and approaching, " You'll see... "

A string of broken notes and inharmonious modulations shook the air as Bel's thin, web-like strings burst mid- barrage. Despite the repeated failures at striking the new kid, Bel willed more whips and forte in his assault. A maniacal grin plastered on his face, the violin-boy watched the movements as the opposing boy danced to the failing rhythm of Bel's solo.

Several chords shot through the air, along with a string a notes in staccato following closely behind. Banksy effortlessly raised his weapon and let the strings whip around the blade and tie it up in a taut knot. His face expressionless as he listened deeply into the beats of his headphones. With a swift flick of his wrist, the blade cut the strings with ease in a short maneuver. A deafening blast of noise filled the area with each snap of the strings' demise. This was simply too easy for the vandal to even consider attacking right away, just to save face and the pride of the wayward instrument across from him before he beat him.

Bel remained static, " What the hell! Why aren't you attacking, you wanted to punch me before, right? C'mon! DO IT! "

Unbeknowst to Bel, the kid with the glasses was literally going to make him eat his own words. As far as the battle went, Bel had been on the offensive while Banksy just stood there and deflected his attacks. There was something about opponents that insubordinated their adversary to the point that they wouldn't even attack that got him as close to pissed off as he could get. Foolish enough, Bel ceased his raid and pointed at Banksy with an accusing finger.

" What are you waiting for! C'mo- "

BLAM

A soul wavelength punch to the face, with such an impact that it reverberated throughout Bel's body. Compressing his facial features into a singular spot, leaving the spare skin that remained to flap out and ripple from the blast. Bel, at once, flew back off his feet in a graceful fall that followed the devastating punch/ soul wavelength shot. Blood spurt out from both his nostrils, mouth, and a swelled up eye, in which the rest of his face followed in suit. A grand total of three teeth had been knocked out his mouth as his jaw launched forward. Three sharp teeth. One of them a molar to be exact. Along with a string of saliva jumping out in a parabolic projectile path. Ouch.

The marvelous blow was the first thing Adelaide and Professor Todd witnessed as they walked out into the light of the courtyard. The sight of Bel flying through the air as the consequence of his stupidity or someone else's rage was a yet another normal sight for her. However, the initial impact made her soul perception go wild, filling her ears with new wavelengths. She had seen the three teeth fling forth from her partner's mouth and land a few steps in front of her. Her woman's intuition didn't fail her at this time as she somehow predicted her instrument's demise in this fight.

Like Adelaide, Professor Sweeny Todd had expected to see Bel's cold body, or corpse, on the ground by the time they reached the area. Ultimately, he had the pleasure of seeing him get knocked out. Not that he enjoyed seeing his students get hurt. Only the ones who deserved it.

Off to the side, the once-loudmouthed Yuan, now silent and forgotten, observed the spectacular punch from his humble spot in the situation. His hands hidden in his sleeves, the monk watched the kid with the headphones consecutively connect his soul wavelength strikes one after the other. Yuan had seen his soul, enormous and lethal. And to shoot it at a small cooldown time piqued the interest of the kid with the Bo staff. His pamphlets all scattered in the winds as his grip unconsciously loosened.

Amelia felt exasperated the entire length of time that Banksy fought the strange instrument. Inhabiting his mp3 in her weapon form, her view of Banksy's last hit was quite the sight. Recently learning of her meister's ability to fight directly with his soul wavelength gave him another perk to add to his unique case. In which she dwelt in his body as a neighboring soul, since she was already dead. Coming back to the current issue, she began to pity for her opponent for the beating he was receiving, they were clearly on differing tiers.

THUD

Bel's body hit the ground. His frazzled white hair spread on the floor and a pool of blood forming next to him. He was bleeding severely from his nose, mouth, eye, and forehead. His mouth slightly parted as crimson liquid spilled out in gushing waterfalls of hail-like projectiles. Any normal person should have been out cold from that.

But apparently Bel isn't a normal person.

Silence soon entailed the violence. Spectators stood in awe, bereft of the recent event. He had to be dead right? If not, it'd probably be a few weeks at the least for him to recover from a blow like that. Think of the cranial damage in addition to the already disfigured physical condition he sustained.

However, such statements and questions were wrong. The sick sounds of blood choked words penetrated the silence. At first, it started out as loud exhales and huffs, which later evolved into uncontrollable, meander giggling. Bel's blood-painted expression formed a twisted smile. His body now following along with the twisted, escalated laughter Bel was releasing. Laughter that can only be described as maniacal or mad. It didn't sustain a static pitch or tone, but rather, varied in sounds, as if his voice were cracked and asphyxiated in a state similar to insane puberty. The creep's guffaw echoed throughout the academy and even reached the streets of Death City below. Unnaturally and disturbingly, he stood up. Not in the crouching sit up position method usually used, but by literally rising from his ankles. Feet flat on the ground, torso rising above the legs in a zombie-esque fashion; almost like how he fell in reverse. Indulging in the dark humor, he shook uncontrollably as he continued his ascent to a proper stand. Laughter finally fading, he faced Banksy with wild, bloodshot eyes and a crooked evil grin only someone of his stature could pull off. He spoke,

" Amazing... Simply amazing..."

He coughed up a wad of blood.

" Now all the rumors make sense... To have someone this strong in the academy... IT'S ALL FINALLY WORTH IT! "

The bespectacled boy was initially shocked and mildly disturbed at Bel's recovery, he half expected him to keel over and die and stay that way. Not to slowly 'resurrect' as some undead monster.

At the entrance, Adelaide and Professor Todd watched Bel's rise from his supposed grave of blood. Both teacher and student were speechless.

Lost within her shock, Adelaide failed to hear the clicks of heels on the pavement next to her. Black, fancy combat boots make their way next to the music meister. Their owner then spoke,

" Bloodshed yet again? " in a monotone yet exasperated voice.

Adelaide turned to her side and found her acquaintance and Grim Reaper standing with her forehead to palm pose.

" Oh, hi Piper! " Adelaide greeted as she stood again in surprise.

Going back, Piper was occasionally assigned missions as a Grim Reaper for the Academy, in which some of her missions led her to attend the DWMA as a

representative. Adelaide had met the reaper every now and then and eventually befriended her, despite her terrifying demeanor.

" What are you doing here? " Adelaide questioned.

The Pied Piper dropped her hand and met Adelaide's eyes, " To see what was happening myself. " she replied in a friendly tone she reserved for Lord Death and her more closer friends, " And it seems that someone may need to go to the infirmary again. "

Adelaide shifted her eyes to her partner, who by now was laughing maniacally while a wildly gushing hemmorrhage littered the academy's courtyard, " Or a mental hospital... " she completed.

Professor Todd looked down at the young reaper, " What exactly are you doing here in the academy? " he asked with out concern for the tone of his voice.

The Pied Piper turned her head and looked at both Adelaide and Professor Todd,

" Well, as of now, I am attending the academy as a regular student. "

Adelaide looked to Piper once again, " Are you serious! "

In response, the reaper nodded, " Just recently, I found a weapon partner, whose going to start today here at the academy. "

Adelaide, once again was taken aback. So there really was someone who was a good enough weapon for the feared Pied Piper, Grim Reaper and meister extraordinaire? Let alone be oblivious enough to stand the noble and cold air about that she takes pride in?

" Amazing... so where is this partner of yours? " Adelaide questioned, looking around for any other stray students.

" Well, I had to take him to the nurse's office earlier this morning, so you'll probably see him in class. "

" What happened, did he get into fight? " Adelaide inched closer as if to read the reaper's expression for answers.

" I'd keep my eye on the fight at hand if I were you. " Professor Todd said nodding toward the scene in front of them, " Bel's getting ready to attack. "

Adelaide picked up sound of Bel's soul swelling gradually as he crouched, violin strings wrapping around the other, making a thick thread. The two girls spectated the conflict with their sixth senses. Piper stared at the albino-haired boy's soul swell to a large enough degree to be considered dangerous.

" Time to die! " Bel's whip-like chords lashed out at Banksy from both sides with great ferocity, seemingly slicing through the air as their traveled to their target. Banksy, on the other hand, stayed stoic and observed his options. The attack was of a high enough calibre to severely harm him and to be ruled under the category of ' unstoppable'. This was bad.

In a reflex, the British artist, held out his weapon and amplified the volume to maximize Amelia's resilience to taking hits. The chords were caught by Amelia's blade and swiftly wrapped around. Banksy then took advantage of the momentum and swung out to deflect the attack.

Bel was surprised at this and watched his strings fling out toward the academy's walls, nearly slicing a tower and breaking numerous windows in its Mean- Free Path of Destruction and Carnage.

_Oh crap_

Is what went through Bel's mind as he witnessed the falling rubble and debris from his strings. Banksy firmly held his weapon as he too witnessed the damage done, Amelia almost acting like a pulley with the string spinning around her toward the academy. Again off to the side, Yuan's eyes widened from silent observation to horrified awe in the wake of the chord's rush to the academy buildings. Adelaide and Piper too were left in a bereft state as the symmetry of the DWMA was ruined by the likes of two one-star meisters. This left them wondering what their punishments going to be. Aside from the standard reaction, Sweeny Todd looked at the crumbling building in dismay and disappointment. This was going to come out of his paycheck, wasn't it?

The chord's sweep of the tower slowed to a loud halt. Stopping just barely at a window facing the city. The smoke and dust whirled and settled in a matter of seconds, revealing the end of the attack.

...

The rare silence in the academy, preserved in the one small room known as the infirmary, otherwise called the Nurse's Office. A single soul occupied the space at the moment, on the bed closest to the window overlooking the academy and Death City. In the soft, sterile bed lay young Eliezer Abendroth in peaceful slumber under the morning sunlight. It has been only one month since his arrival in America and the boy was recuperating at a fast pace, even from the depths of starvation and depravation. His skin still paper thin and a ghostly pale hue, one of his many features that stood out. There were apparent signs of starvation that lingered on his face and torso, his ribs now only slightly poking out his chest and a small filling of fat to cover his twig-like limbs from shattering. His face now more innocent than emotionless with slight redness around his eyes which can be cured through regular sleep. In fact, the boy had made it a habit to sleep the majority of the time, slowly regaining the energy he once had. Since their first meeting, Piper had addressed Eliezer by a more casual shortening of his original name- Eli. Eli had no particular rejection against it and thus accepted the three lettered name in this new life. Communication-wise, Eli hadn't started speaking as of yet and only responded by nods and gestures. The Pied Piper had nurtured him over time, now understanding that he has special abilities that he is not fully under control of as of yet. He would learn in time, but for now, it was fine to sleep while he could.

The chord grinding against the building rumbled and shook the room as it traveled nearer and nearer. Eli, however, stayed content and deep in slumber as the destruction headed his way. The wall came crashing down in layers of plaster and wood, revealing the chord's stop at the foot of Eli's bed. Gravity took over and the thick metal string began to drag back down to the courtyard below, taking an unconscious Eli entwined in it tangles.

...

The heavy chord fell upon the three protruding spires that extended from the entrance of the DWMA, now dangling limply, swaying in the desert wind. Eli swung back and forth with his feet tangled in the strings for the students below to see.

Seeing the sight of the person one took almost motherly care of for the past month literally dangling by a thread because a some irresponsible thug's antics can be, needless to say, shocking. The black and white haired reaper stood aghast in the view of Eli, suddenly and quite literally dragged into a ridiculous situation, hanging upside down with him, surprisingly, still asleep. The Pied Piper's jaw literally fell to to a least three time the size of her head in utter disbelieve. It was like the feeling of talking about someone while they stood deathly behind you with a growing aura of malice.

The young music meister also stood in exasperation, witnessing the near destruction of the academy all in the hands of her own instrument. It was normal for the meister to take responsibility for these things, but it was best to let Bel take the blame. She looked curiously to the dangling boy at the end of the string.

" H-hey... Who is that? "

Piper whimpered in a vulnerable manner, " That's my partner. "

An ever-winding tumbleweed zephyr blew across the player on the stage of the academy's foregrounds.

This was when they all met.

* An actual quote by the real Banksy


	5. V: Witch's Hunt

_On the other side _

_The Realm of Witches and Magic_

_In a world of Reapers and Souls_

**SOUL EATER: RIPOSA EN PACE**

_" Gallop. Gallop. Gallop."_

_" You hear the rattle of armor and the stomping of iron hooves behind you. " _

_" You are too afraid to look. "_

_" And as the rattling gets closer and closer... "_

_" Your heart is frozen and is drawn in by the mysterious sound of clanking metal. "_

_" You feel a sharp object poke your back and dig further in. Slowly..." _

_" And slowly... RIPS YOUR HEART OUT! "_

EEEEEKKKKKKKK!

The group of witchlings leap back and hold each other tightly as their robes flutter about in a messy fritz, obliterating the ominous and dark atmosphere lit by a single half-melted candle before their black shrouded story-teller.

Yes, cold nights like this often entailed the exchange of ghost and horror stories among the young students of witchcraft. Awake and past their bedtime, children test their courage against the haunting words of the tales of horror and grim misfortune only to eventually relish in the excitement and thrill of potentially having their souls scared out of them. Such behavior was common and often went unpunished... unless caught by their superiors.

The giggling moon provided the alternative exterior lighting to the story time taking place within the spire-turned-magic academy in an abandoned part of the woods somewhere in Europe.

The stacks of books that served as their fortress in the middle of the grand and massive library toppled over sending waves of dust into the cold air as the children gathered themselves. Most of them too young to understand and naive to learn the complexities of the brutal world that lay beyond the trees, far from the safety and guidance of their teachers and elders.

Time marched on in the world, with the changes along with it. Wars, technology, revolution, and anything of the sort advanced and spread as it would any other time. Often into the welcoming and shunning arms of humans. Beings who bore the ability to control the supernatural in the natural world, otherwise known as magic were mostly called witches. Unfortunately with time, the witches continued to be shunned by the world, often called 'evil', and hunted down for their souls. Living in the cruel shadow of humanity, witches began to live in the underbelly of society, forming secret communities and learning to live alongside humans all the while keeping their magic and traditions secret. The people of magic lived in constant fear of the Reaper, who specifically trains weapons and their meisters to hunt down their kind and do the world justice.

Although cruel to mention, witches themselves consider their own kind evil and an existence to be feared. They knew the true extent of their power will only lead to destruction and chaos if not kept in check. This was called the 'Sway of Magic', the inherent desire in all witches to cause said destruction in the world. Despite their poor order and remote civility, the Elder Witch, Mabaa took it upon herself to see that the ' Sway of Magic' becomes not a painful price for existing in this world, but as an obstacle that is needed to be overcome for witches to truly grasp their magical power and somehow do the world good despite its cruelty to them. Thus the establishment of the magic academy came to be. Albeit, only known among wicken society, the magic academy mirrors the DWMA in most ways but builds to the specifications for witches.

Coming back the scene of the storytelling. The veiled story teller laughed in the face of the scared children, relishing the incredulous look on their faces with a demented, fluctuating pitched crowing that belonged exclusively to the Witch of the Library. The children on the verge of tears, clutching the edges of their capes, bottom lip being furiously chomped upon or pouted out in a crybaby fashion. The youth took their sweet story time with great horror and enthusiasm around the backs of their teachers and moderators, it was such menial activities as this that allowed the young witches to simply act their age, even if the time is spend being horrified and teetering with the fears in their hearts.

Once again bursting the atmosphere, the grand library door burst open in a fit of magic lit by antique flambeaus. Figures in a black cloaks and pointy hats walked inside the makeshift camp fire and fort of books. To the children, the sheer height of the figures nearly grew three times in size as the black mass walked over to where they were.

The grown-ups had found them, their upperclassmen to be exact; or that's how the witchlings regarded them as anyhow. Roughly removing the pointed hat, letting her hair fall down, what seemed to be the leader of the upperclassmen revealed the scowl that scared the children more than the story. The world around them seemed to quiet down as her mouth opened.

**" **Do any of you know what time it is! "

Her deafening question was met with the silence all children held when being scolded.

" It is four hours past curfew! How do you intend to attend classes tomorrow! "

Another bout of silence as her question was remained unanswered.

" Up now, all of you. To your dorms and straight to bed. "

Her statement now with a voice of merciless authority , commanding the children in a manner in which they obeyed immediately. The witchlings, still shaken and trembling from either the story, their elder, or both, all stood on shaky knees and drudged to the exit of the library.

" The rest of you lead the kids their dorms. I'll have a word with the

'Witch of the Library'. " The so-called leader barked towards her subordinates who turned and followed in suit of the children leaving the now silent, veiled story teller alone to be reprimanded.

Sighing, the leader stepped forward in to the former bonfire and story-circle. The previously laughing figure now eerily silent, awaiting for the loud mouth to spout out more punishment.

" Why are you promoting such meaningless behavior? " the leader asked slapping a hand against her forehead with clear exasperation.

The veiled storyteller spoke up, " The kids wanted a bedtime story, I just gave them what they wanted. " Sounding innocent only provoked the anger of the individual before the dimming candles.

" Don't be stupid! " The leader shouted as she ran over and roughly pulled down the storyteller's veil, revealing a female face with a look of obvious amusement.

Continuing on, " I'm not going to sit idly by and watch you pull others into your juvenile activities! You're supposed to be a role model! "

The storyteller, now unveiled and fully visible leant back and flew the rest of her cloak back revealing the the magic academy uniform, " I'm not being juvenile, I'm just having fun, no harm in that, right? " She sat back up and faced the leader with creepy eyes, " Besides, it sure was fun scaring the heck out them... "

The lead witch then sighed and sat down in front of the uncloaked storyteller with a huff. Squeezing the bridge of her nose, she thought of ways to talk sense into her classmate only to find that there was no sense in talking to her.

" Achethe Ved'ma Nepherwick. The Witch of the Library. The class idiot. The phantom student, how do you intend to carry yourself in the outside world with mannerisms and habits like this? " The head witch calmly asked her.

Achethe Ved'ma Barnswick was indeed an outcast amongst her peers in the magic academy. Such behaviors that led to her isolation included living in the academy's vast library, never attending her daily classes but somehow keeps good enough grades to not be expelled, and late-night antics such as this. Her midnight activities have been a bafflement to all who dared to peek into her macabre and ominous world. To any outsider, Achethe would be an ideal witch, basically the kind that indulged in poison apples, dried up rodent remains and entrails in formaldehyde-filled jars, and big, expensive cauldrons filled with a suspicious liquid that glowed in the dark.

There was one other thing about Achethe Ved'ma Barnswick that did not sit well with her classmates and her elders.

" Simple. I'll stay inside. " Archethe replied with a particular venom that only stung in particular places.

She was rude, but clever. Very clever.

Before a enraged retort could escape the leader's mouth, the grand library doors ripped open with the hands of a panicked underling. Shaken and wavering, the message escaped her lips in a messy yet clear exclamation.

" HELP! "

In a rush, the leader and a lagging Achethe made their way to the doors and supported the struggling underling. Gasping from the sprint to notify the two, the underling fainted in her leader's arms. The leader turned to Achethe,

" The children! "

...

The dim-lit halls of the former spire flickered and twisted as the group of witchlings and their upperclassmen ran from the unseen terror that stalked them from behind the shadows. In all honesty, the sight of them running scared half out of their wits seemed to be taken from some well-made horror movie; if only it were and not their reality. Growls and grinding metal crawled up the trembling spines calling upon the primal fear of the dark. How did such a monstrous presence make its way into the academy?

On the other side, Achethe and the leading witch ran side by side through the damaged and soiled hallways of which the unknown monster probably may have passed. With no time to waste and no attention to detail, Achethe subtly chuckled, loud enough for her classmate to hear. Her head flips to Achethe and with a disgusted and incredulous look, " What about this situation do you find funny!"

Achethe kept her pace and stared forward into the impending darkness,

" Weren't you going to say this was all my fault? "

" T-this is all- " immediately stopping in a blush for falling into her trap of words,

" Now is not the time for foolery! " The rush continued in quiet steps and breathes.

The air suddenly gets cold.

Outside air. A draft wisping inside the academy. The duo slowed to a stop at the sight of the gapping hole in the side of the hall. Where supposedly, whatever came in, got in. The leader hurriedly examined the scene.

" Something like this shouldn't be possible. The gates were shut and the none of the barriers have been breached. " The leader looked out the hole into the carnage of trees and dirt outside, " We have to notify the teachers!"

" I'll go..." Achethe lazily turned and walked the other way.

" WAIT! " Her classmate yelled reaching her hand out to the estranged witch. Obviously the thought of being alone in the dark where she knew that a rampant monster was on the loose was already frightening enough.

" What? " Achethe replied.

Suddenly finding the ground more interesting, the leader meekly said, " Don't leave me here alone. "

Achethe turned back to her with another sick smirk at an inappropriate time, " So who's going to get the teachers? We don't know even know what broke in in the first place. "

Looking back up at Achethe, the lead witch replied, " Then we'll see what did... "

A feeling. No, an instinct? A hindering technicality? Something was clawing its way into Achethe's mind as she and her classmate ran down the increasingly darker hallways. Was it perhaps the fear of the dark? Or the rushing excitement of running in the night? She had read about how the night and the moon affect people's mentality and behavior, making them more susceptible to matters beyond the visible realm. Causing them to do things that they would normally not do during the day. Senses heighten, pupils dilate, and reflexes are braced, Achethe speculated that it might be the result of the fight or flight instinct developed in most living organisms over the course of time. Night was the time predators would strike, when their prey was unaware and most likely visually handicapped by the dark the night offered. Such events happened tonight as something was able to breach the magic academy's walls, which are known for their multilayered reinforcements, to hunt for prey.

Whatever Achethe was feeling beneath her facade of cleverness and knowledge certainly wasn't nice. Now, they would just have to follow the creature's tracks and find out what it was.

" Achethe, our priority is to find the children and the other students and direct them to safety, from there we go straight to the teachers, got it? " The lead witch briefed Achethe on their plan. Whatever it was that came into the academy is most likely dangerous, meaning that the lives of the witchlings came first before dealing with the threat.

Achethe, on the other hand, was strangely engrossed with the disturbing feeling in the back of her head, earning an unusual and curt, " Got it. " as her answer.

Closer and closer they ran into the bleak dark. They stop at a corner, the following moments had, to Achethe, been a sick rendition of the story she told earlier that night.

They heard the rattle of armor and the stomping of iron hooves before them...

They were too afraid to look around the corner...

The rattling gets closer and closer...

Their hearts were frozen as they were drawn in by the sound of clanking metal...

" SOMEONE! PLEASE! "

The shriek for help snapped Achethe and the lead witch out of their fear and swiftly turned the corner to see the very beast that was their disturbance in the night. Standing frozen once more, the two witches gasped at the sight of the black centaur-like creature.

Bearing the body and four legs of a horse and the upper half of a man clad in knight's armor, the beast wielded a grotesque lance pointed at the witchlings and the remaining students. A helm covered its face with only a pair of glowing red eyes peering into the souls of it's well-sought dinner.

In an effort to catch the beast's attention, the lead witch yelled, " Over here! " This, unfortunately succeeded in doing so, and the mighty centaur spun to its side for the distraction she offered. Taking this opportunity, the witchlings and students made a break through its legs, making it to the pair and continued to run from there. The centaur took its time to completely turn around to pursue the witches.

Turning corners and running down the halls once again, the group of witches and witchlings desperately searched for a way to find safety. Achethe on the other hand kept looking back at the silhouette of the monstrosity chasing them; the feeling she had before seeing it with her very eyes now evolved into complete thoughts. This was no ordinary beast, it wasn't even a centaur, nor did it hold any magical properties within it whatsoever. It used brute force to breach the academy walls and physically gave chase to what it was looking for.

" That thing is an Afreet! " Achethe externally concluded.

The lead witch turned around with a mixture of shock and confusion toward Achethe, both surprised at whatever came out of her mouth wasn't a snarky or clever comment and confused as to why she told her now.

Achethe breathlessly added, " I saw it's soul the moment we turned the corner. It's unlike any I've seen before! "

Despite her 'flawed' sociability, there were two main reasons why many of the witches ostracized Achethe. One was the fact that she could see living souls. She had the infamous Soul Perception, an ability exclusive to weapon meisters. With time, the relations between meisters and witches continued to sour, with both sides holding great enmity toward the other. The fact that a witch could see souls the same way a meister could was ultimately considered taboo. For poor Achethe, she is the only known witch who had soul perception in all of history.

The lead witch bit back, " Don't spout your nonsense out right now! Do you expect me to believe that! "

There were some who didn't believe in Achethe's claims of seeing apparitions and souls. And in this situation, believing her was the last thing any of the witches would do.

The creature known as an Afreet is called by many names. Witches refer to them as the Afreet, meisters or humans who strayed onto the path of insanity and devour human souls. Meisters refer to them as Kishin.

Achethe held her tongue, realizing the importance to keep running in the current situation. From where they were in the academy, it would take too long to get to the teachers' dorms and the Afreet might cause more trouble while following them. She had to act fast.

Coming to a two way pass, Achethe went opposite of the group, disappearing into the dark. The Afreet continued unwavering toward the group of witches not noticing Achethe slip away into the dark. It was a matter of time before the lead witch looked around for Achethe's presence.

" Achethe? Achethe! "

" She's gone! " A younger witch called. Panic rose in the group as their sprint began to wane, hearing the clanks of metal and iron hooves behind them.

CLACK

A decently sized rock met the Afreet's back, causing it to stop momentarily. The witches looked back to see the sudden stop of their pursuer. Slowly, hooves rotated its lumbering body around to face the young witch who caught its attention. Achethe stood breathing deeply from the running she had done, hiding in the dark and running behind the Afreet after it passed her. She knew that there was no way for her to defeat it, but if she could lure it outside...

" Achethe! " The leader called out in relief and exasperation to her classmate at the other side of the Afreet.

Achethe turned to run back where she came from and soon enough, the beast followed, forgetting the group of witchlings and witches.

" She's using herself as bait! " The lead witch sprinted toward the direction her classmate ran off with the Afreet, momentarily turning back to her underlings,

" Notify the teachers and get to a safe place! That girl can't use magic! I need to get her! "

Cloak flowing in the chilled night air. Breathe materializing in white mists from her mouth. She had no idea of what she was doing.

Achethe had made it back to the gaping hole where the Afreet entered and ran outside, looking back every so often to see the centaur-like beast catching up. The laughing moon now spewing blood from its wide mouth illuminated the night surface, giving the woods a ghostly glow.

Achethe had been so focused on luring the Afreet away from her classmates that she forgot one important thing. She can't use magic.

That was the second reason why her own kind avoided her. They weren't even sure if she was a witch. Unable to use any magic, Achethe was considered useless and a failure. Reasons as to why she remained in the magic academy were known only among the top brass of wicken society.

Magickless and defenseless, Achethe ran in the night with low chances of survival. Death never seemed so close to her as now. She began to subtly chuckle at how she truly felt the fear of death creeping up on her now of all times. She wondered how she could have such a grim sense of humor, or perhaps she was slowly going mad with time.

Before she knew it, Achethe came to the gothic gates that were breached by the monster that was dangerously close. Tripping over an unseen rock, Achethe supported herself on a crooked metal beam, gasping, as the fall left her winded. A sharp pain entered her head as the beast slowed its approach and got ready for the kill. She mustered what strength she could into peering into the Afreet's soul. As opposed to the innocent blue of the human soul, the Afreet's soul radiated a cruor red with a rotten core, partially covered in scales; it was a bit sick to look at.

Achethe was afraid. Very afraid. She found it ironic that a monster from her story would be the one to kill her. It was deathly ironic. Coupled with the fear, the piercing pain in her head grew exponentially. She squeezed her eyes shut and whimpered quietly. A deafening ringing pulled her ears and caused a tear to drop from an eye.

What was this? Madness?

The Afreet looked down at its prey, interested in the taste of her soul. It was close enough in arms length, and it reached out.

_Am I going to die?_

At last, in the pitch silence, Achethe screeched, as loud as she could, catching the centaur-like beast off guard.

A black, bony hand came from the ground and wrapped its ghastly fingers around one of the legs of the Afreet. Then came three more, each grabbing a leg rendering the Afreet immobile. Try as it might, the monster toppled over forward, dropping its lance and clawed at the ground.

Achethe's soul swelled and engraved magic glyphs around her and the Afreet. By this time, she opened her eyes noticing the pain and the ringing were gone. Her heart beating in her throat, she witnessed the surge of magic from her soul rise from the ground and impaled the crippled Afreet in a mess of blood and slippery organs falling to the earth with sickly splats. The magic disappeared as soon as it came. The rewinded images of the sanguine fluid and splayed internals in Achethe's brain both interested and repulsed her. It was all just sick.

The entrails and remains faded to black and burst into spinning strips, leaving behind the puddle of blood and hovering above, the Afreet's scarlet soul. Achethe realized what power she was capable of, what witches were capable of. It both fascinated and scared her to the depths of her soul. This now confirmed her existence as a witch. But the fact still remains that she retained the ability to see souls. If anything, she was going to be observed more closely by the higher witches and pushed away even more by wicken society as an abomination.

Footsteps soon slowed as the lead witch saw the scene that was before her. The soul of the now dead Afreet in front of a bereft Achethe. Her breathe left her as she turned to look at the Soul-seeing witch, devoid of any words for her. No scolding, nothing.

Achethe came to her senses and looked back at the lead witch, seeing her speechless at what was the situation now. The threat was gone. Before lingering too long, Achethe turned to the woods and ran. Away from the magic academy. Away from the world she knew.

Achethe last heard the voices of teachers, alarmed and urgent fade away as the twisted trees now replaced the familiar sights of school grounds. The drooling moon as her only light.


End file.
